


The Silence Between

by GoforthAndConquer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Did I Mention Angst?, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mentions of Self Injury, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, mentions of suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:08:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 66,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoforthAndConquer/pseuds/GoforthAndConquer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles began volunteering at the Beacon Hills Crisis Center, all he hoped for was to help out kids (like him) that needed somewhere to turn. He didn't expect to find something that he needed in a stranger's voice on the other end of the line.</p><p>Prior to season one. Mostly canon-compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And It Starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm creating a soundtrack for this fanfic with each song corresponding to the chapter it inspired. I will post the newest song with each new chapter.
> 
> [Click here to listen.](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)
> 
> Please read notes regarding triggers at the end of the chapter.

“Beacon Hills Crisis Center. This is Stiles. How can I help you?”

As the girl launched into her story, bemoaning how her beyond evil parents kept her grounded all the time to prevent her from seeing her boyfriend (who seemed to be Edward Cullen and the kids of One Direction in some horrible, pop-culture Frankenstein mashup), Stiles wondered, not for the first time, why he had decided to do this. He wasn’t exactly known for his fantastic listening skills (more of a talker, really, with all the times he hears “Shut up, Stiles”) and nearly all the calls he received were from angst-ridden preteens upset that their parents hadn’t bought them the latest iPad as they call him from their ( _last edition, UGH, for real?_ ) iPhone. Beacon Hills wasn’t particularly known for tragedy anyway. Or anything at all really.

He sighed, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie, his fingers scraping against three raised, parallel lines. Time stilled. Breath hesitated, fingertips tracing the narrow paths along the inner dip of his elbow. Three scars, three reasons. Not that there weren’t more - many - soft lines of tissue tracing his body like a map, a constellation to be seen only in darkness and disappear in the light of day, beneath cotton sleeves and sarcasm. 

He swallowed, pushing his sleeve back down, and listened.

After the call ended, Stiles laid his head back against the headrest of the chair, staring up at the mildew stains on the ceiling. The office was stubbornly silent, all but for the low hum of the computer monitor, and it made his teeth itch. The Crisis Center was a small operation, outfitted by three employees and a handful of volunteers, himself included. It was he who had offered to take the graveyard shift, his caffeine addiction and ADD-induced insomnia well-suited for working the twilight hours. It was better than sitting in the dark at home, waiting for his Dad to wander in after his shift or the phone call that meant he wasn’t.

The light on the phone began blinking red and Stiles flipped on his headset.

“Beacon Hills Crisis Center. This is Stiles. How can I help you?”

No one answered; a shuddering breath skittered across the line.

“Hello?” Stiles frowned, mashing the volume button with his thumb. It was already maxed out. “Hello?”

He definitely heard breathing that time, a sharp, sudden inhale. Whoever it was still wasn’t saying anything and Stiles ground annoyance between his teeth.

“Look, if this is Mr. Stankowski, you are still not permitted within two hundred yard of a school for good reason. I’m not explaining that again because, seriously, I’m right in your preference range and it freaks me out.”

A beat passed, then another. “This was such a bad idea.”

Stiles jolted upright, knocking his knee into the desk and hissing at the pain now radiating in his kneecap. That voice - gruff, masculine, nearly a growl - was sure as shit not the neighborhood pedophile.

“Sir?” He began, hesitant. There was no response, cursing himself beneath his breath as he clutched his knee to his chest. “Sir, are you there? I’m so, so sorry about the confusion. I just didn’t hear anything but creepy breathing - not that your breathing is creepy or anything - but it’s one in the morning and I’m up two Red Bulls and, oh God, shutting up now.”

Stiles was certain he had just chased away the mystery caller, the caller who had called into a crisis hotline for fuck’s sake - probably for _a crisis_ \- and Stiles would never forgive himself if that the call where his job actually mattered, when he heard a huff of what could have been quiet laughter.

“I thought I was the one supposed to do the talking.”

It was something of a blessing that no one could see his stupid grin. “Well, that is sort of the setup,” Stiles replied, nearly giddy with relief. “I’m no expert, just a volunteer, but that’s the whole dynamic in a nutshell. You talk, me listen. So, feel free to talk away. Anytime now. Hopefully soon.”

“I don’t know,” the voice said. The words were soft, stilted. “I’m not - that is... I don’t talk much.”

“A man of few words, I take it?” Stiles spun himself on his chair and immediately got tangled in the telephone cord beneath the desk. He rambled on as he attempted to free himself. “I’m rather unfamiliar with the concept personally, but I’ve heard of such a creature, some program on NatGeo, I think. Your species is endangered as it is, with the rise of anonymous social media and all, I can’t imagine a world where every useless thought wasn’t immortalized through Twitter and, Jesus, you’re the one that’s supposed to be talking. Sorry, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” the voice said. It’s a good thing that Stiles had the volume all the way up on the phone, the man was barely speaking at all, as if words were vibrating through the wire and straight into his ear. It made the conversation seem unbearably intimate all of a sudden. “I don’t mind. Much.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose. “Ha freaking ha. I’m glad to be of use.”

“You are.”

Silence clogged his throat for a moment and Stiles had to cough to clear it. “I’m glad,” he said, and if his voice lowered to match the stranger’s volume, he didn’t think twice about it. “I’m not generally a useful person.”

“I can’t believe that.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Stiles leaned back in his chair, playing with the strings of his hoodie like they held the secret of the universe. “I can barely tie my shoes without being distracted. I’ve been taking Adderall since I was old enough to swallow and my term papers still end up being a diatribe on ancient bloodletting practices rather than the repercussions of income tax. I’ve been on the lacrosse team for two seasons and have never played a single game. I almost did, once, but then they let someone from the marching band play instead. He even made a goal. My dad refuses to eat his vegetables, I can’t figure out the dishwasher despite years of effort, and I’m even lousy at the basic listening skills. I don’t know why you haven’t hung up on me already.”

Stiles could almost hear the shrug through the phone. He sighed, narrowing his eyes when he realized the hoodie string had migrated into his mouth and spit it out. “You should call around seven,” he said. “Monica works the evening shift and she’s an amazing listener. It’s a gift.”

“I don’t mind,” the voice said. It really was a pleasant voice, Stiles decided, beneath the cigarette huskiness of it all. “While I don’t talk much, I also don’t have anyone talking to me. It’s... nice.”

“Oh.” It was more of an exhalation than a word. “Well, in that case, I’ll talk on. Disclaimer: you can tell me to shut up at anytime. Everyone does, trust me. I won’t get offended.”

It was as if smiles had a sound. “I’ll log that away for future use.”

Stiles found himself grinning again, swinging his legs up onto the desk to lean back further. “So, if I’m going to chatter away, can I at least know your name? I know this is supposed to be all anonymous and shit but I don’t want to address you as dude the entire night, which I totally can do, but this isn’t 'Dude, Where’s My Car?' which, honestly, not that hilarious-” 

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Funny enough, that didn’t make him grin any less. “Then, pay the tollmaster.”

There was a shifting down the line, shoulders settling. “... David.”

“David.” Stiles let the name roll around his tongue, like an everlasting Gobstopper, clicking the word against his teeth. “Alright, David, so what would you like to talk about?”

“Anything.”

“That’s a wide, infinite array of topics and probably not a good idea to give someone hopped up on caffeine with the attention span of a spaniel and a brain like Wikipedia.”

“Umm,” David breathed noisily, as if this talking business was taking a lot of effort to keep up. “You said you play lacrosse?”

Stiles nodded, though that was a useless gesture as any. “Yeah, two seasons now.”

“What’s that like?”

And, Stiles was off, his brain going a mile a minute and his mouth racing to keep up. He lamented on his forever-benched status and how Coach Finstock seemed to have a personal circle of hell reserved just for him. He moaned about hours of suicides after accidentally spraining Jackson Whittemore’s wrist before the big game, which led to the complete detailing of the douchery of said douchecanoe. And, finally, talking about lacrosse maneuvered him into Scott McCall territory and there was years of ground to cover.

“So, when everyone finally came to after the explosion, they found Scott and I dangling from the ceiling in a tangle of industrial rope. The bastards let us hang there for another ten minutes before bothering to cut us down, to teach us a lesson or something equally ridiculous. Of course, I ended up grounded, but, as I was already grounded, I figured it was double jeopardy and didn’t count.”

There was a breath of laughter at the other end, equal parts amused and bewildered. “Do you do this often?”

Stiles shrugged, despite knowing that David wouldn’t see the movement. “I suppose if I were to create a statistical grouping of such incidents, it would rate slightly higher than average.”

“You are certainly an outlier.”

He couldn’t help the exaggerated moan, bubbling over into giggles. “Oh, talk smart-dirty to me. Whisper Pythagorean’s theorem in my ear. Call me sucrose and I’ll melt into a puddle of goo.”

There was a beat of silence and Stiles couldn’t help the facepalm. _Goddammit, Stilinski, this isn’t a sex chat-up line and could you possibly be more awkward and holy God he probably thinks I was hitting on him because I can’t filter my thoughts before they get to my big, stupid mouth_ -

“We could slip between my beta-pleated sheets and you can get to know my alpha-helix.”

Stiles gaped into the receiver (it took a lot to stun him into silence, give this guy a medal) before his teeth clicked together in a manic grin. “You have no idea what you’ve started, David. I can out-nerd the most hardcore of nerds.”

“Hey, don’t hate the player,” David said, his smirk audible, “hate the game.”

Gauntlet thrown.

“Baby, you must be a start codon because you’re turning me on.”

“I’m writing a new make-out program. Would you like to be the beta-test?”

“I wish I was adenine so I could get paired with you.”

“It’s not of the length of the vector that counts, it’s how you apply the force.”

“If I was an enzyme, I’d be DNA helicase so I could unzip your genes.”

“Your mouth is saying ‘Shields up’ but your eyes are saying ‘A hull breach is imminent.’”

“Oh my god, you win all the wins.” Stiles gasped. “The fact that you can see my eyes is creeper level to the max because you must be hiding in the ceiling or possibly behind that potted plant but I have never been out-nerded before today and, ladies and gentleman, I must remove my hat and admit defeat. Bravo, sir, bravo.”

There was a shifting type of silence, all shrugs and squirming. “I do what I can.”

“I admire and respect a fellow Trekker,” Stiles continued, drumming his fingers on his knees to the rhythm of the Star Trek theme. “Particularly since we’re so often beaten up in bathrooms and on the playground for the majority of childhood.”

There was a confused pause. “I was never beat up.”

Stiles snorted, moving from his knees to the edge of the desk for the drum solo. “Why I am not surprised? Your voice speaks for itself.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It totally does. I mean, you’re obviously the strong-and-silent type, which would mean nothing without the strong bit. Otherwise it would just be silent. And you have the kind of voice that’s an amalgamation of Hugo Weaving and Bruce Willis. Badassery wrapped in cigarette smoke.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Ugh!” Stiles hung his head in near-defeat, staring at the worn toes of his chucks. “It’s a metaphor, dude. Just accept it. Let it go. Don’t question my brilliance.”

“Stiles.”

It said something about his state of mind that Stiles just grinned at that. “See what I mean? All gruff and ‘Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker’ and ‘Goodbye, Mister Anderson.’ Seriously, dude, own it.”

David made a smug little grunt and Stiles knew he was secretly pleased.

“Still,” he continued, “it’s good to meet another like-minded spirit. Kids are just not raised properly these days. My dad made damn sure that I watched everything from Next Gen to Deep Space Nine.”

“I commend his parenting.”

Stiles hummed in agreement. “I know, right? So, which parent raised you properly?”

The following silence thrummed with tension, discordant, and Stiles was so intimately familiar with that kind of quiet. Knew it likes bones and blood and empty nights clinging to a sweater that no longer smelled like her. A silence that stretched across the table between him and his dad, the third chair forever empty. A tension that was the grinding of his dad’s teeth, refusing to say her name, and coiled in Stiles’ chest as panic swarmed his senses despite all the medication in the cabinet.

They breathed together and it was the silence of watching someone die.

“I should go.”

David’s voice nearly startled Stiles out of his chair, despite how low the sound was, almost too soft to be heard. It was thin enough to shatter and the thought of glass breaking chilled him to the bone.

“That’s cool,” he blurted out, “it is like three in the morning and I’ve been talking your ear off for a solid two hours and - whoa, two hours, really? - you’ve been a pretty captive audience, which is expected with all the nodding and shrugging that I can somehow hear. Besides, not all of us can be Batman, watching over the populace as the city sleeps.”

“... Are you Batman in this scenario?”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not Robin.”

There was a huff of breath that could have been laughter and Stiles felt his shoulders relax. “I would never imply that you were Robin.”

“Good,” Stiles replied. “Because I am most definitely Batman.”

“Whatever you say.”

“That sounded like doubt there.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Don’t questioned the armed vigilante suffering PTSD wearing a cape.”

“I would never.”

“Just so we’re clear because, as the Dark Knight, I am not one to be questioned. Unless that question is ‘Are you Batman?’ then feel free to ask away.”

“Stiles - ”

“Alright, alright, shutting up. Keeping it zipped. Throwing away the key. Rather, I’m keeping it in a safe place because I don’t want to be mute forever-”

“Thank you.”

That stopped Stiles short, words piling up in his mouth before swallowing them away. His eyes burned and he closed them.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered. Something tightened in his throat (danger, danger Will Robinson) and he forced himself to grin, the edges cracked. “But, that’s why you called and that’s what I’m here for. 24 hour babbling service, free of charge. I’ll be here all summer, be sure to tip your waitress.”

His words trailed off, caught like grit between his teeth, but his eyes were open again and dry. The moment lingered, the silence between them speaking for itself.

“You talk a lot,” David said finally, “but you don’t tell anyone anything, do you?”

And Stiles found his smile fraying apart, unraveling to tangled strands of yarn and thread, his fingers instantly finding the scars along the inner crevice of his elbow. It was like being forced to stare into a shattered mirror, the reflection in jagged pieces, and knowing someone else, a stranger, just a voice on the other end of the line, was able to see the distorted mess beneath when no one else could.

“Sorry.” The apology was gruff and sincere. “I don’t mean to... I mean - it’s not my business.”

“No!” Stiles blurted out, time catching up and the words pushing forward. “I mean... no, it’s okay. Really, it’s okay.”

David’s throat cleared; there was the scraping sound of a hand sliding against stubble and Stiles was suddenly struck by the need to see this person, the face of the voice who whispered in his ear and knew him without ever seeing him. But, the thought of that was more terrifying than the alternative, and so he let the urge sink somewhere in the deep where he would not look.

“I just mean,” Stiles began, and he couldn’t help the hope beneath the cracks in his voice, “that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it?”

“... Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: discussion regarding self-harm, mostly cutting, and suicidal ideation
> 
> I have never worked in a crisis center, but I am familiar with their policies. Stiles ends up breaking most of them for the sake of the story and this is in no way recommended in real life. Those policies are in place to protect the client and to protect the call center employee and should not be violated. The situations I've written are for dramatic effect and are entirely fictional.
> 
> I also imply that Derek and Stiles are suffering, or at one point suffered, from a Major Depressive Episode during this fanfic. Depression should be treated with the help of a psychologist or psychiatrist, through counseling and pharmacology. The methods that these two characters use to handle their depression are not always healthy or recommended. If you are suffering from depression, do not hesitate to seek treatment.
> 
> If you are in need of someone to talk to or dealing with issues of self-harm or suicidal ideation, please call 1-800-273-8255 or 1-800-784-2433 for help.


	2. Follow The Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a grunt in response.
> 
> “And you would know, Lord Buzzkillington, Duke of Buzzkilldom, where happiness goes to die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from  
> [The Shins - Phantom Limb](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

His alarm sounded at one p.m sharp and Stiles reached out blindly, smacking the snooze button with the palm of his hand. The edges of sleep lingered, lulling him back into darkness, and he let himself sink under.

Until the door was near rattled off the hinges with the force of the fist knocking on the door.

“Stiles!” His dad’s voice thundered across the floorboards and through the pillow jammed over Stiles’ head as he tried in vain to burrow into his mattress. He made a snarling noise in response. The fact that his dad chuckled did nothing for his mood.

“Stiles, get up. Scott’s here and you have five minutes before I let him wake you up.”

His dad was a secret wizard because those were the magic words. He shot out of bed, only realizing that the sheets had tangled around his limbs when he tumbled to the floor in a mess of cotton and limbs.

“I’m up!” He yelped, face mashed against the hardwood. “I’m up!”

“Five minutes.”

Stiles struggled to free himself as his dad’s steps echoed down the hall. He managed to stumble out the door and into the bathroom with little to no injury to his person. Soon, he was freshly washed, smelling less like stale sleep and sweat and more like Dove soap (his skin was too sensitive for Axe or anything, which was fine because he was morally opposed to smelling like a douche).

He had just slipped into a t-shirt and jeans when Scott burst into the room, all gangly limbs and curly hair and goofy grin. The kid was practically a living, breathing cartoon character. Well, barely breathing, Stiles mused as Scott sucked in albuterol, once again annihilated by his mortal enemy: stairs.

“What can I do for you this lovely afternoon, Scotty?”

Scott flopped onto his bed, pushing too-long hair out of his eyes. “I was thinking we should set up a lacrosse practice regime this summer so we can make it to first line.”

Stiles groaned, slumping into his computer chair. “Dude, you are completely delusional. Running sprints three times a week between video game marathons and sugar binges is not going to get our asses off the bench.”

“Come on, Stiles!” Scott begged, his puppy-brown eyes going all soft and sad and goddammit. “I really want to get on first line this year. I want the pinnacle high school experience that they show in the movies.”

“You want to be the ugly-duckling-turned-beauty-queen that bones Freddie Prinze Jr.?”

“Stiles!”

Scott’s lower lip began to tremble ever so slightly and Stiles cursed his masochistic need to nurture stray puppies and kittens and Scott McCall. “Alright, alright, just stop it with the lip.”

The pout was gone as if it had never existed in the first place as Scott grinned, nearly vibrating with excitement.

“You’re the best, dude.”

“I know.”

And that’s how Stiles found himself pulled out the door, shouting a quick goodbye to his dad, as he was suckered into summer training. They partitioned out three times a week for running and weight training and two days for lacrosse drills. As Stiles flailed through the last lap of his mile, he kept telling himself that Scott’s enthusiasm would last maybe two weeks when asthma and the newest C.O.D. release would have him rethinking the whole training concept. But, Scott was his best friend, his bro, his comrade-on-bench, and Stiles would endure a lot more than a few suicides so that goober could keep on grinning.

They ended their first practice early (Scott could only use his inhaler but so much in one day) and Stiles was barely able to turn the doorknob to his house, much less prepare himself for nearly barrelling into his dad as he opened the door.

“Jesus Christ, Dad!” Stiles yelped, nearly tripping over his own, still-numb feet. “Give a guy a heart attack, why don’t you?”

His dad gave him one of his patented long-suffering looks. “How was practice with Scott? You look half-dead.”

“You’ve always been so uplifting. Ever thought of being a motivational speaker?”

“So? How was it?”

Stiles shuffled around him and into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water and sucking it down. “How do you think it went? My aches have aches. I think I left my kneecaps on the field.”

His dad leaned against the door frame, mouth quirked. He was already in uniform, gun holstered in place, and Stiles ignored the too-familiar feeling of pride/worry that welled up every time.

“The exercise will do you good,” his dad said. “Since you never get sleep, you might as well keep up some aspect of healthy living.”

“This coming from the man who swears fried okra comprises a whole subset of the food pyramid.”

His dad snorted in response.

“Speaking of,” Stiles continued. “Dinner?”

“Already ate. And carrots were involved.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They let the conversation falter before his dad straightened up, clearing his throat.

“Well, I’m heading to work. You working at the Center again tonight?”

Stiles nodded, ignoring the sweat cooling at the back of his neck and whether David was awake and okay somewhere.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then. Keep out of trouble.”

“Don’t I always?”

“Not even close.”

The front door shut and Stiles stared at the shadows rippling across the wall until the sweat had dried to the small of his back and the sun had begun to slide beneath the treeline. With a heavy breath, he placed the glass in the sink and made his way upstairs to wash himself clean.

***** 

The weekend passed in a blur of faint-hearted lacrosse practice and catching up on summer assignments when it was Monday again and Stiles waved goodbye to his dad and headed to the Crisis Center. He pulled into the parking lot ten minutes to ten, the moon orange and full-bellied in the darkened sky. The Center was a small, warm brick building deeper in the suburbs of Beacon Hills, right on the boundary of the national park. Stiles bounced his way into the building, past the main desk and empty counseling offices until he reached the call center. Monica was slumped over the desk, her cheek flat against the fake wood top, and fiddling with the pencil, a forlorn look pursing her features.

“Seriously, Monica?” He snorted, slumping down on the chair beside her. “You have to be joking.”

“Shut up.”

“Not in the least, especially if you did what I think you did and took your moronic on-again, off-again boyfriend back.”

She groaned and turned her face away, her dark blue hair hiding her features, but Stiles was not to be thwarted. He rolled the chair up next to her and laid his cheek against her head, laying a hand on her shoulder.

“He’s such a doucher and you can do better,” Stiles affirmed.

Monica said nothing for a moment, her steady breathing pushing against Stiles’ chest where he was cuddled against her back. Soon enough, she snickered.

“He is though, isn’t he?” She mused. Stiles grinned against the dyed-blue and kissed her temple before spinning away on his chair, letting her bounce up and onto the desk, a matching grin on her pixie face. “I would start prowling after you but that would ruin the bromance.”

Stiles sighed, pressing a hand against his heart. “Tis true, my lady. And, I have pledged my heart to Lydia Martin and cannot go back on such a vow.”

If Monica rolled her eyes back any farther, it could be counted as a medical condition. “Ugh, I know and it saddens me. She’s hung up on Captain Toolbox and you can do so much better.” A thought sparked across her violet eyes and she smirked with a wickedness that could never be cliche. “And I know that, despite your protestations, you’ve always been an equal opportunity kind of guy.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Preferably, around a dick.”

“Agh!” Stiles covered his ears with his palms, his cheeks hot against the heels of his hands. “Not listening, nope, not even a little, nada.”

Monica tilted her head back, laughing boisterous. “Come on, Stiles, I’m here to listen to your troubles.”

“You’re an evil, evil woman. I refuse to give in to your villainous ways.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “But, that’s because you’re jealous that I’ve had the pleasure and you haven’t.”

Seriously, she was going to kill him through gratuitously lecherous language and being a freaking know-it-all. He would melt into a puddle of blushing virgin on the floor and be swept away by the cleaning crew.

He glared at her, refusing to move his hands. “Shouldn’t there be leaving happening in your immediate future?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She hopped down from the desk and swept into her jean jacket, yanking her messenger back over her shoulder before smacking a kiss on the top of Stiles’ head. “I’ll let you suffer your sexuality not-really-a-crisis in peace.”

“I reiterate: evil.”

“You love it.”

And, with a parting smirk, Monica the whirlwind had left the building, leaving Stiles with the still-connected headset and eight hours to kill. And none of those hours would be spent thinking about her words. Not even a little.

Two hours later, Stiles was watching the tennis ball stall at the top of its arc just before gravity pulled it back down, falling into the palm of his hand with a satisfying thud. Up and down. Up and down. Up and oops, didn’t mean to hit the ceiling.

He sighed, rubbing his hands against his eyelids that grew heavier with each passing minute. The middle of summer vacation and, with no social life to speak of, Stiles was at attached to a headset staring at a silent phone. He hadn’t received a call all night and boredom throbbed like an aneurysm about to burst. But, technically, it was still early, barely past midnight, so he still had five hours of this to look forward to.

Goodie.

He pounded back another Red Bull, only to nearly spray liquid sugar all over himself as the call light suddenly blared on. Cursing, he choked down a solid ball of caffeine before flicking on his headset.

“Beacon Hills Crisis Center. This is Stiles. How can I help you?”

“.... Uh, hey.”

Stiles swore his pulse jacked up because of the caffeine overdose and not because it had been five days since that phone call with David (not that he was counting or anything).

“David?”

“Stiles.”

And Stiles was certainly not grinning like an idiot. He was smiling in a refined matter. Like the British.

“Hey, dude, what’s up?”

Rustling over the line. “Nothing. Same as you, apparently.”

Stiles clasped a hand over his chest. “Oh, right in the dignity. Thank you so much for pointing that out.”

“Anytime.”

“It’s so kind of you.”

“I know.”

“But, I don’t want you to feel like you have to go out of your way or anything.”

“Very considerate.”

“Aren’t I though?”

“Not really.”

Stiles threw his head back laughing and heard that huffy breath that meant David was laughing too (though he was sure the guy was too proud to admit it).

“Man,” Stiles smirked, “you sure know how to boost a guy’s ego.”

There was a stilted snort. “Something tells me you’ll recover,” David replied.

With dryness like that, the Amazon would shrivel up. Stiles couldn’t help but like it.

“So,” he began, “what can I get you? Unfortunately, I don’t do delivery. Carryout only after ten.”

“Uhh.” David stumbled over his sounds, so obviously uncomfortable that Stiles almost felt bad. But, the guy had called him, not the other way around. And, no one calls a crisis hotline for shits and giggles.

“I just - ” David tried again before nearly growling in frustration and Stiles was no sadist.

“So, I decided to skip ahead in my summer reading,” Stiles blurted, already rolling, “and I don’t understand the high school English teacher’s obsession with dystopian fiction. I mean, _Brave New World_ is one of the best books ever written ever, but we also have _1984_ on our list, which I get it - rats evil, Big Brother scary - along with _Fahrenheit 451_ and _A Handmaid’s Tale_. That’s a lot of ‘society is a bowl of suck’ to take in.”

It’s as if Stiles could hear David relax, the pressure of talking removed from his shoulders. It was a burden Stiles could bear easily (and had many times).

“I was partial to _Anthem_ myself.”

Stiles scoffed. “How am I not surprised you’re into Ayn Rand? Do you drink only local microbrews and quote Nietzsche during intellectual discussion?”

“God is dead.”

“And, we got jokes, ladies and gentlemen.” Stiles clapped a little in Oscar-winning congratulations. “I’m fond of Nietzsche, don’t get me wrong. It’s just to whole anti-semitic thing is such a buzzkill.”

There was a grunt in response.

“And you would know, Lord Buzzkillington, Duke of Buzzkilldom, where happiness goes to die.”

A grumpy harumph echoed down the line and Stiles figured that was David-speak for ‘I agree but I refuse to admit you’re right.’ Which Stiles understands because he’d rather staple his lips shut than admit defeat.

“Still, it’s something to do,” he acquiesced, stretching his legs out in front of him. “At least it’s not _Lord of the Flies_.”

“... I liked _Lord of the Flies_ ,” David muttered, defensive.

“Dude, are you mental? There’s only so much symbolism you can shove in one book before the universe implodes,” Stiles argued to the ceiling, tapping out the drum riff to the Phil Collins classic, In the Air Tonight. “Just how is Simon supposed to represent Jesus? Why doesn’t Ralph grow a pair? Why the fuck would someone name their child Piggy?”

“You’re missing the point,” David snapped, practically crackling with frustration. “It’s a primordial tale of man versus beast and realizing that, in the end, we are all beasts.”

“David,” Stiles bit out, jaw set in stubborness. “His name is Piggy. That is all.”

“Ugh!” The sound of clattering and crashing erupted, like a desk had been upended in an overly dramatic fashion. “You are being deliberately obtuse.”

“It’s one of my best features. Along with a rockin’ ass - ”

“What?!” David yelped, voice cracking.

Stiles grinned vicious. “Don’t be jealous, dude, not all of us can be built like Greek gods.”

“Oh God, shut up.”

“I mean, you can bounce a quarter off that thing and I only know because I may have tried it out once or twice.”

“Seriously?!”

“Can’t really get the trajectory from that angle but, from what I’ve heard, it’s about how you apply the force.”

“Shut up, Stiles, for the love of God, just stop talking.”

But, somehow they ended up laughing, Stiles not even bothering to wipe away the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes, his skin prickling at the free, happy sound coming from David. It was a good laugh, low and bright and rumbling and Stiles knew that David was someone who didn’t laugh nearly enough and desperately needed to.

Their giggles gradually died down (Stiles was secure enough in his masculinity to call them for what they were) when he felt that twisted, curious, horrible, heady need to _push_.

“David?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“... Yeah.”

“Why did you call?”

The following silence didn’t surprise Stiles, but he didn’t shuffle backwards, didn’t let words crowd up the empty space. He volunteered in a Crisis Center, where the lonely and depressed and hurting, oh God the hurting, came to when the dark seemed endless and the knife/pill/rope/bullet proved too much a temptation. Stiles would know. He had been fond of razors himself.

“I needed...” David trailed off, uncertainty cutting into his breathing. “I needed something.”

Stiles sat up a little straighter, his mouth set in a sober line. “What did you need?”

“... I don’t know.”

“Try.”

And, this is why Stiles was good at this. He had the insatiable curiosity and the patience to poke and prod and sift, coaxing with honey and silence that bubbled over with words, until honesty was bared in the darkness. The truth will out.

There was nothing but the sounds of their breathing for a few minutes, stretched taffy lifetimes that left Stiles feeling overwrought and sticky. But, he kept his tongue and swallowed down everything he could say because he didn’t need to say it. Not like David needed this.

A shuddering breath, wrung-out and tired. “... My family is dead,” he whispered.

Stiles shut his eyes, something beneath his ribs cracking and seeping with wet, but he bit his lip and held his tongue.

“All of them,” David continued, his voice parched. “The only one I have left is my sister but she’s not here and I’m terrified that I’m forgetting things, like my mom’s favorite perfume or the way my cousin Samantha made pancakes. And, every night I dream that I’m home again but then I wake up in the morning to the smell of ashes and I’m still alone.”

Each word was soft and heavy, weighing in his gut like stones and bones, and when Stiles tasted blood in his mouth he gasped. “David - I am so... I can’t even imagine - God, I can’t even - ”

“And, you know what the worst part is?”

Stiles shook his head, licking at the split in the lower lip where his teeth had bit through.

David made a wet, choking noise, and it could have been something like laughter. “It’s my fault they’re dead. It’s all my fault.”

There was a sharp click and Stiles was left beneath the humming, florescent lights of the Crisis Center, ringtone echoing in his ear. He slowly slid the headset off, placing them gently on the counter, before rushing to the bathroom, acid and bile gurgling in his throat.


	3. Cut Me a Heart (From Milky Way Stars)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don’t mock me,” he moaned, the back of his neck beginning to stick to the leather and he couldn’t bring himself to care. “This is pure hell. Seventh circle. Judas is in the next booth over making margaritas."
> 
> Chapter title: [Too Late for Lovers - Gin Wigmore](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

Stiles had a thing against hospitals. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand that the majority of their work was saving people, saving lives. But, all he could remember was smelling disinfectant on Mrs. McCall’s uniform when she went to hug him the day his mom died and how the panic attack had obliterated his senses. Ever since then, she had been careful not to touch him when she was in her nurse’s scrubs, and Stiles was silently grateful. It was something without words between them, something that Scott didn’t fully understand. Stiles had thought about explaining it to him once. But, it wasn’t long after that Scott’s dad had walked out of the house, slamming the door shut behind him and never coming back. He had forced himself to swallow down the panic, holding Scott against his chest to soak the collar of his shirt in salt and snot. He didn’t begrudge him this, never held it against him. His mom had slipped away against her will; Scott’s dad had made his choice to leave. Stiles wasn’t sure which was worse.

That’s why he refused to let his hands tremble as he walked with Scott through the hospital, carrying a bag of Chinese take-out.

“You think she’s really going to let you borrow her car?” Stiles asked again, apprehensive.

Scott shrugged. “I can’t have you driving me around forever. It’s not like I’m crossing state lines.”

“No, you’re just trying to see your dad,” Stiles pointed out. “Pretty sure that’s worse.”

“Stiles!” Scott stopped abruptly, whirling around to face him. “I know it’s crazy, I know it’s stupid. But, he was the one who called me this time.”

“I know, but - ”

“And, yeah, he’s been a royal douche, and I can’t forgive him for walking out, but he’s my dad, Stiles.” Scott trailed off, his brown eyes glimmering wet and weepy and pathetic. “I can’t just cut him out like that.”

Stiles knew what he meant, but it didn’t make the heavy feeling in his gut any lighter. “I get it, dude, I really do. I just don’t want this to blow up in your face.”

Scott gave him a lopsided smile. “Yeah, I know. Same here.”

A moment passed, and Stiles sighed, clapping Scott on the shoulder. “Alright then, let’s go con your mom out of her keys.”

Somehow, the two of them were just deceptive enough that Mrs. McCall was only mildly suspicious of their intentions. In the end, Scott still walked away with the keys and Stiles tried to pretend that this wasn’t going to end in a fiery blaze of disaster.

It was weighing on his mind when he went to the Crisis Center that night. Monica was in a much cheerier mood, doodling anime characters onto the sides of her chemistry homework.

“What’s with the Bambi eyes?” She asked, barely looking up from Cloud’s penciled-in face.

Stiles glared at her. “I don’t have Bambi eyes.”

Monica snorted. “Please, you totally do,” she asserted, staring at him from under the blue fringe of her bangs. “They are all big and brown and dewy. It makes me want to snuggle you.”

“That’s genuinely disturbing.”

“I know, right?” Monica started shoving things into her bag. “It’s totally deceptive though. You’re like the Bambi that lures the wicked into a carefully concocted trap and then steals away their life savings and the cops show up to arrest them for crimes they thought they had gotten away with.”

Stiles thought about that for a second. “So, I’m a baby fawn doubling as a character on Leverage?”

“Exactly.”

“That actually makes sense and I’m sort of pleased with this assessment.”

“As well you should be.”

Monica left shortly thereafter and Stiles was alone again for the night. He spent the first hour reading 1984 before getting sick of Winston’s whining. Then, the next hour was devoted to beating his score on Temple Run. He got his first call around midnight, and spent the next half hour listening to a kid named Ben rant about how his biology teacher hated him and it was ruining his life. In the end, all the kid needed was help with his homework (the joy of Punnett squares) and so Stiles tutored him until Ben was satisfied that he wouldn’t fail biology. Once the line went dead, Stiles glanced at the clock. 12:43am. Only four-ish more hours to go and he was already sick of Temple Run.

“C’mon, you motherfucker!” Stiles cursed, launching another red bird at the ice castle structure. The walls shattered, but the pigs were saved by a precariously placed wood beam, grinning like the assholes they  
were. “You dicks.”

Stiles was about to launch the yellow bird of doom when the phone rang. He clicked it on with his elbow, his eyes glued to his phone’s screen. “Beacon Hills Crisis Center. This is Stiles. How can I help you?”

“... Hey.”

It was like the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Which is less romantic and more deeply unpleasant. “David?”

There was a small sound of assent.

Stiles shot up straight in his chair. He had thought that David was long gone after that last call. To say he was shocked was quite an understatement, but he couldn’t help but grin, relief sliding down his shoulders.

“Hey, dude,” he said, trying to contain everything he was feeling. “Didn’t think I’d hear from you.”

“I wasn’t so sure myself.”

“I’m sorry.” The apology snuck past his teeth before he could stop it. Not that he wanted to.

“... It’s fine,” David muttered. “I mean... that’s what you do, right?”

Stiles felt something ease inside him. “Yeah,” he agreed, “that’s what I do.”

“So, don’t worry about it.”

There was very little that Stiles wasn’t worried about. The revelations that David had made, clawed open and bare for the world to see, the self-loathing that had torn into his voice, how soft it sounded while guilt dripped from his throat. The fact that he had David on the phone again should have initiated his emergency protocols. The training they had undergone to be able to man the phones at the Crisis Center had been very clear on what do during scenarios like this, where self-harm or suicide were either implied or outrightly stated. While David had not said anything to that effect, Stiles had taken enough calls (had heard the desperation in his own voice) to know what to hear. But, something in him hesitated, lingered on indecision.

“Yeah, okay,” he finally said, making the choice. “But, just, give me the benefit of the doubt, okay? I’m here for a reason.”

There was a long pause. “I will,” David said, promised, and it was small and quiet and good enough for Stiles.

“So,” he began, “do you prefer Michael Keaton or Christian Bale’s Batman?”

* * * * *

The pattern continued for the next few weeks. Stiles would casually mention his next shift at the Crisis Center and, sure enough, he got a call from David around one or two in the morning. Most of the time, their conversations could last hours; other times, all they could manage was a shared silence and the knowledge that someone else was listening to their breathing. Having made his choice to keep David for himself (rather than guide him toward the other channels), Stiles knew he was taking a huge risk. The ethical violations alone left him with squirmy feelings in his stomach. But, it didn’t matter, because every night he clocked in, he knew the phone would ring and David would be on the other end of the line. And, every day David called him, was another day David was alive. In the end, that’s what mattered to him. Even if he had no idea what he was doing. It’s not like that was unusual for him, anyway.

It was the weekend of July Fourth and approximately 438 degrees (Stiles was rounding up for accuracy).

Stiles twisted closer to the fan, the hot air fluttering against his face. The heat wave had crashed into Beacon Hills mid-July and wasn’t looking to let up anytime soon. To make matters worse, the Crisis Center’s A/C had busted that morning and wasn’t due to be repaired until Monday. Which meant that Stiles had to suffer in subtropical temperatures for two more days. TWO MORE DAYS. Stilinski’s were not made for jungle fever, were genetically opposed to it, actually. They were a people that hailed from the wonderful, temperate climate of the Eastern Bloc and were not made to endure anything above a toasty eighty-two.

He groaned, resting the back of his head against the too-warm leather of the chair headrest. His t-shirt was sticking to his stomach, khaki shorts slung low on his hips. He had barely managed the shorts, but figured he didn’t want to add public indecency to his list of legal violations The fact that he had a list was depressing enough.

It was just past midnight and the heat had yet to relent, the air humid-thick and making each inhale like pulls of damp cotton. His eyelids were beginning to flutter shut, weighted down by water and gravity, when the phone rang. His fingers slipped weakly over the “Receive Call” button, switching on the headset.

“Beacon Hills Crisis Center.” The words were heavy molasses rolling around his tongue, making every soft and slurred. “This is Stiles. How can I help you?”

“No A/C?”

Stiles had enough energy to raise his eyebrows. He considered it a victory.

“Don’t mock me,” he moaned, the back of his neck beginning to stick to the leather and he couldn’t bring himself to care. “This is pure hell. Seventh circle. Judas is in the next booth over making margaritas.”

David huffed, which in David-speak was an uproar of laughter. Or so Stiles had translated into a handy David-English dictionary stored away in his brain. “It’s not that bad.”

“Like hell it isn’t.” Stiles grabbed the soda can on the desk, pressing it against his cheek to soak in the remaining molecules of coolness from the aluminum surface. “I’m melting.”

“It’s barely ninety-five degrees.”

“Do you even listen to yourself? You say barely as if that makes it okay.”

A dismissive grunt.

Stiles rolled his eyes; sweat was clinging to his lashes. “Look, just because you’re immune to climate changes doesn’t make my suffering any less legitimate.”

A snort this time, sharp and brief.

“Well, of course, you’re likely languishing in blessed air conditioning while I evaporate into the atmosphere. Humidity probably avoids you out of fear of retaliation. As for me, if the temperature swells above eighty, I flush like a virgin attending brunch with the Marquis de Sade.”

“That’s a specific image.”

Once David had opened up, Stiles quickly learned that he could be just as sassy as yours truly, but David liked to keep his humor dry and deadpan. It was a perfect contrast to Stiles’ snark and sarcasm. It was nice to have someone to verbally spar with. Scott tended to get easily bowled over by the force of Stiles’ enthusiasm, and his dad could shut it down with just a look. David was always more than willing to push back, to put Stiles in his place. It always left him grinning a little bit too wide. It made him feel a little bit reckless.

And, when Stiles was reckless, he opened himself up to bleed.

It wasn’t something he could pinpoint along a timeline. He had always had a problem with his brain-to-mouth filter (mostly because he didn’t have one), but when it came to things that hurt - things that mattered - Stiles was an expert at deflection. That instinct was as primitive as fight or flight, but he could feel it falter, wavering every time David asked a question as soft as smoke.

“That’s when I hightailed it out of there,” Stiles laughed, wrapping up the story with gusto. “Of course, my dad found out anyway, like he always does. I can barely get away with normal teenage shenanigans, much less pranking the city councilman. But, when your dad’s a cop, what can you do?”

There was a murmur of agreement. “You talk about your dad a lot.”

Stiles shrugged, wincing at the sweat sticking to the chair. “Well, yeah. He’s - he’s my dad.”

There was a long pause, a heaviness that Stiles could feel pushing down on his lungs, before David gently asked, “What happened to her?”

The question was hardly more than a whisper, and yet it was like the razors he had hated (loved), straight and sharp and blood welling in its wake. It would be so easy to deflect, to set up words like smoke and mirrors to distract and divert until Stiles was as good as invisible. But somehow, despite David being nothing more than a voice, Stiles felt razed and wrecked with the need to be seen.

"Cancer,” Stiles finally replied. “Lung cancer, actually, and she had never smoked a cigarette in her life. Did you know that more people die from lung cancer than any other kind? People really don’t know that, you know. There’s all this awareness for breast cancer and whatever, so much research and funding and marathons and shit. You know how many people treated her differently when they found out it was in her lungs? Like it was her fault she was sick. Like it meant less.”

“Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Of course, it wasn’t fair!” Stiles scoffed, his breath hissing through his teeth, his eyes too dry. “They would look at her different, as if it didn’t matter as much. Some even said it out loud, that it was her own damn fault and why should they be sorry? Fuck, I got into so many fights - not that it got her better. In fact, it probably...”

He trailed off, words clotted up in his larynx. He clenched his eyes shut, dug his nails into the palms of his hands. The bright flare of pain let his lungs expand a little further. Looking down, seeing the stain of red in the fleshy hollows of his palms, stigmata for sins committed, Stiles knew he could breathe again.

“Anyway, she was in treatment for a while before the doctors stopped offering options and held her hands instead. She stopped chemo on my eleventh birthday and she was gone before Christmas.” Stiles paused, almost smiled. “We buried her in the snow.”

He remembered: his dad had gripped his shoulder almost to hurting and Scott had held his hand. Stiles hadn’t said anything as they lowered her into the ground, just stared at the snow sticking to the roses laid across the wood and knew that she would have sang about Jack Frost and caught snowflakes on her tongue. She had always loved winter best.

“I’m sorry.”

David’s words brought him back to the present, where his skin was too-hot from summer heat and his mother had been dead for five years.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Me too.”

The moment hung between them like snow, like ice hanging from the trees. It cooled his skin and was such a welcome relief that he felt clean again, despite the sweat on his face and the scars on his skin.

“So, I have my dad,” Stiles said. “He’s the only family I have now. Other than Scott. I’ll never be rid of Scott.”

David huffed in amusement. “That’s what they say about herpes.”

“Dude, once you go Scott, you never go back.”

“That’s a genuine health concern.”

Stiles found himself laughing and a few weeks ago he’d have been surprised that he could manage laughter with memories of his mom so close to the surface. A lot of things had changed in just a few weeks.

“Do you - ” Stiles hesitated before soldiering on. “Do you have anyone? I remember you mentioned a sister.”

A brief silence. “Laura,” David replied. “She’s the family I have now.”

Knots eased in Stiles’ chest, relieved. “I’m glad you have someone with you. I mean, Beacon Hills is a small town, but family is family, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” There was shuffling down the line. “Though, technically, I’m not exactly... that is, I’m not actually... She’s in town and I’m not. Well, I am, but not really.”

Yeah, that didn’t actually clear up anything at all. “Uhh, what?”

“We were in New York,” David explained, “and we were mostly fine. But, she said she needed to come back here and she did. When Laura gets something in her head... well, she wasn’t going to listen to me. She came back here and told me to stay in New York.”

Stiles already knew where this was headed. “So, you ignored her and followed her anyway.”

A flat pause. “I’ve never been great at following instructions. This one in particular.”

“So, you came back.”

“I came back,” David agreed. “But, I keep my distance. She knows I’m here and is not... happy with me. So, I stay on the outskirts of town until she lets me know she’s ready.”

Stiles thought about that for a moment, frowning. “Beacon Hills really doesn’t have much in the way of outskirts. Unless you’re camping in the woods.”

Silence followed and Stiles immediately bristled.

“Dude,” he bit out. “Please tell me you’re not camped out in the woods somewhere like some American version of Bear Grylls.”

“... I’m not?”

“There was an inflection there. You inflected. Dude, you can’t sleep in the woods for an indefinite period of time till your sister gets her shit together. How do you even manage to call me? Nature isn’t known for an abundance of electrical outlets.”

Derisive snorting was a common theme in these conversations. “I go to the Starbucks in town. I’m not an idiot.”

“That’s debatable, Survivorman.”

“Are you going to name every naturalist program you can think of just to mock me?”

“You’re the one going all Call of the Wild when there are perfectly good hotels. With beds and roofs and all the amenities.”

“I’m fine, Stiles. Really.”

“You say that, but I have this really horrific image of you drinking your own piss - ”

“Stiles!”

“Right, okay, I know, but seriously, dude. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Though David didn’t say anything for a minute, Stiles could almost hear the flush of embarrassed warmth flooding his ear. “I’m okay. I’m - I’m okay.”

Stiles got the feeling that David hadn’t been able to say that for a really, really long time. It made his heart hurt in a way that he was suddenly desperate to ignore.

“So, do you eat your wild rabbits raw or prefer roasting them over a hearty campfire?”

“Stiles.”

He laughed, and the ache slipped away, diverted.

“Alright, I’ll back off,” Stiles allowed. “I can’t help it, dude. I’m just...”

The words got tangled somewhere in his ribs, fluttering against the beat of his heart.

There was a listening pause. “You’re... worried about me?”

His skin began to ache, as if two sizes too tight, and his pulse throbbed in his throat and dammit. “Yeah,” Stiles admitted, and that it was true hurt worst of all. “Yeah, I am.”

Stiles was familiar with compassion; he soaked it in, drank it up, drowned in empathy every time he sat in this empty, little room and waited for the phone to ring. But, compassion is one thing; this - whatever it was between him and David - it was entirely different. And utterly terrifying.

“That...” David’s cigarette voice wavered like smoke. “I mean... Thank you.”

The way his heart scrambled up his throat had him nearly choking on it. “You’re welcome,” he whispered.

A few minutes later, after the goodbyes lingered and the silence stretched until the line clicked dead, Stiles heartbeat was still racing in his chest, sending nervous energy skittering all the way down his fingertips. It was an alarm sounding danger ahead and Stiles wasn’t entirely sure that he could avoid what was coming.

He was on a collision course and it was only a matter of time before he crashed and burned.

His dreams that night consisted of Andy Warhol-like images of the Titanic slamming into a field of icebergs, a symphony screaming in the background as Campbell’s soup labels ribboned in and out of the icy Arctic.

His dreams were always particularly strange after pulling an overnight shift.

Stiles woke up to the smell of bacon drifting from downstairs, and it was almost enough to lull him back into sleep. That is, until his thoughts caught up with him and his eyes flew open.

“Dad!”

He scrambled out of bed, still not quite coordinated from sleep, and narrowly avoided faceplanting down the stairs. He slid into the kitchen, socks propelling him into the counter as his dad watched his entrance with a raised brow, just as he flipped another pancake in the skillet.

“Good morning, son,” he greeted.

Stiles huffed. “Dad, is that bacon I smell?”

His dad glanced into the plate full of freshly-cooked bacon before turning back to him. “I should hope so seeing as how I’m cooking it.”

It was hard to properly roll your eyes when just barely out of a REM cycle, but Stiles managed it. “And, I’m sure your arteries are already weeping in despair.”

“I asked him for it.”

After nearly braining himself on the fridge, Stiles whirled around to see Scott perched at the kitchen table looking even more adorably morose than usual. It took just a moment of deliberation before Stiles knew exactly what was going on.

He sighed, giving in. “Alright. Just this once.” He pointed an accusing finger at his father. “Oatmeal for you, mister.”

“Stiles - ”

“Oatmeal!”

His dad gave a long put-upon sigh. “Fine. Oatmeal it is. Can we eat now?”

Nodding, Stiles shuffled over to the kitchen table, sitting beside Scott. The guy looked quietly devastated and it took all of Stiles self-control not to dig his nails into the wood of the table.

“Hey.” Scott looked up at him through shaggy bangs. “Breakfast first, then we hash this shit out. Okay?”

Scott nodded, smiling slightly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Breakfast was a quiet enough affair, with his dad asking the right amount of questions without prying too much. It’s not like his dad hadn’t figured out what was going on anyway. He was the Sheriff for a reason. His dad had been there when Mrs. McCall had gone to work with a black eye and fractured wrist and had refused to say anything except “I want a divorce.” A few days later, the Sheriff had paid a visit to Mr. McCall at work and the next day he was gone, leaving nothing but yellowed bruises and an empty closet.

After breakfast, Stiles led Scott up to his room and had barely shut the door behind him before saying, “I told you so, dude.”

Scott’s puppy face was worse than an ASPCA commercial and Stiles almost culled his words. Except, you know, that _he had told him this would happen_. He was justified in pointing it out.

“Yeah,” Scott agreed, flopping down on Stiles’ bed before curling in on himself. “I know.”

Stiles felt his resolve wilting already. “I’m sorry,” he said, sitting himself next to Scott and laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It saddens me that you share genetic markers with such a dickbag.”

“Me too,” Scott mumbled, squashing his face into Stiles’ comforter as if he could bury himself into the mattress. “I just thought this time would be different.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, “I know.”

“I just don’t get why he doesn’t want me.”

The words were muffled by blankets, but it made Stiles heart hurt all the same before sparking into a barely-contained rage. His fingers tightened on Scott’s shoulder, biting into muscle, before he forced them to relax. He hadn’t really known Mr. McCall very well, just seen him around the house a few times before the guy was running out the door for another work meeting. He did remember finding his best friend curled up on his bedroom floor the day his dad left, clutching a note that said nothing more than _sorry kid_.

Stiles swallowed the anger back down into the pit of his stomach, a smoldering heat that blackened his bones. “Because he’s a fucking idiot, that’s why.”

The body next to him shifted, half of Scott’s face peering up at him wordlessly before splitting into a dimpled grin. “Thanks, Stiles. For everything.”

“Anything for you, Scotty.” Stiles clapped him on the shoulder one last time before bouncing up to his feet. “Now, how about I kick your ass in Super Smash Brothers?”

Scott launched himself onto his knees. “No way, dude, I’m totally going to own you.”

“You’re on.”

* * * * *

“So,” Scott began, after a good half hour of nothing but cursing and button-mashing, “are we going to Lydia’s party tonight?”

The Lydia Martin summer pool party extravaganza was a thing of legend in Beacon Hills. And somehow, against all odds, Stiles had managed to wrangle himself an invitation. Mostly through charm, wits, and blackmail, but the ends justify the means as Machiavelli would attest.

“No way I’m going to miss this, dude,” Stiles replied, maneuvering Samus away from an incoming lava flow. “It’s the social event of the year. It will be a soiree of epic proportions. Gatsby himself would be jealous.”

“Uhh... who?”

“It’s called a book, Scott. Look it up.”

Kirby swallowed a star before drop-kicking Samus into the atmosphere, where she disappeared with a twinkle.

“It’s called losing, Stiles. Look it up.”

And this is why Scott McCall was his best friend.

Stiles grinned. “Just wait till I use the Ice Climbers. You’re going to quail in fear at my Smash Brothers prowess.”

“Bring it on,” Scott smirked. “You know, it’s cool that the Center gave you Saturday night off. I almost never see you weekends.”

Something twisted in Stiles’ stomach, which he swallowed down. “About that...”

Scott turned to him, expression one of bewilderment. Actually, that was his default expression. “Dude, are you serious? You’ve been stoked for week about this party. I can’t believe they couldn’t give you one day off. Not cool.”

Stiles could only nod, doing his best not to squirm with guilt. In truth, he had been going to ask for the night off weeks ago. Dr. Carmichael was really cool about giving time off, particularly for overnight volunteers. But, weekends were always when David called and Stiles had kept putting off asking until it was too late to change the schedule. He wasn’t sure if he was more disappointed or relieved.

“I’m totally going to be there though,” Stiles insisted. “For a few hours at least.”

Scott looked unsure, but shrugged it away. “I guess if you’re cool with it.”

“One hundred percent.” Stiles clapped a hand on Scott’s shoulder before shoving him off the bed. The surprised yelp made the whole thing worth it, even as a pillow came flying straight for his head. Even if the weird feeling in his gut didn’t quite go away.

If anything, the party only made it worse.

Stiles stank of chlorine as he walked in the Center that night, sticky and silent and fuming. Jackson fucking Whittemore, grade A asshat, with his stupid hair and stupid punchable face and his inability to treat Lydia like the queen she was. Stiles would never understand how anyone lucky enough to have Lydia look at them with something other a glare of disdain wouldn’t cherish that attention - wouldn’t adore the strawberry blonde goddess willing to grace you with her presence - would - 

Fucking tool.

Not that Lydia was a delicate flower that needed defending. If anything, she was poised to take over the world with one flick of a manicured finger. But, Stile had seen the hurt flash across her face every time Jackson ignored her, just fleeting glimpses masked by a glossy pout and a roll of her eyes.

Not that he could do anything about it. The one time he had tried to approach her, Lydia had spoken rapid Spanish at him, peppered with the phrase “No hablo ingles” before flouncing away laughing with her friends.

Stiles stormed into the call room, tossing his bags under the desk before dropping into a chair and hiding his face in his arms on desk’s surface.

God, he was so pathetic.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Stiles tilted his face up just enough to see Monica glaring down at him. She must have been taking lessons from Lydia but, as he had already had his dignity shattered this evening, she was much too late for that to be effective.

“What are you talking about?” He asked, question muffled by his hoodie’s sleeve.

“You being an idiot, that’s what I’m talking about,” she snapped. “Did you think I would notice? That we keep track of these things for shits and giggles?”

His stomach curdled with dread. “Still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he maintained, though by this time he knew exactly what she was talking about.

Monica sighed, slumping in the chair next to him. “You know, part of my job is cross-checking the call logs with the list of incoming numbers. Stupid accounting shit. But, imagine my surprise when I find the same number calling over and over for hours at a time, but only on your shift and with no corresponding log for any of those calls.”

Stiles shifted uneasily in his seat, but said nothing. Monica’s eyes narrowed. She had caught the movement.

“What the hell were you thinking, Stiles?” She scolded. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? This system is in place for a reason.”

“I know!” He snapped, immediately regretting the outburst. He leaned backwards; closed his eyes. “He needed someone to talk to, Monica, that’s all. And, that’s not really what we do. We listen, we reflect, we ask how they can resolve their own problems, but we don’t really talk back. And, that’s what David needed.”

“David.” Her voice was clipped and cold. “That’s what David needed. Fuck, you’re an idiot.”

“I know that, too.”

“You’re going to stop it,” she demanded. Stiles could feel her practically vibrating next to him, strung taut with anger. “You’re going to use your training and put some goddamned distance between you and this David or so help me I will yank you out of here myself.”

He nodded, head falling with gravity, nothing more than a law of nature. Monica sighed again.

“You need to protect yourself, Stiles,” she said. “You can’t help anybody if you’re not helping yourself.”

“I know,” he whispered, and he did know. Had always known. Hadn’t always cared. “I know.”

She said nothing for a moment, just rose to her feet and laid a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Take care of yourself, you hear me?”

Stiles nodded, not opening his eyes until the door drifted shut.

Minutes scratched by. There were a few calls that night and each time the phone rang Stiles had to keep his heart from leaping out of his mouth and bolting down the hall. For each call, he kept the strictest rhetoric, stretched his SAT vocabulary to come up with the best synonyms.

“You’re feeling morose because your mom has forbidden you from seeing your boyfriend.”

“You’re livid that your boss would threaten your position with the company.”

“It sounds like you’re apprehensive about this upcoming change in your life.”

It was a little after two; the clock was annoyingly persistent in its time-keeping and Stiles wanted to smash it against the wall. He picked at his nails instead.

The phone rang.

“Beacon Hills Crisis Center. This is Stiles. How can I help you?”

“Hey.”

The painful thumb against his ribs made him bite his lip. “Hey, David.”

“How are things?”

“Fine. Things are fine. You?”

“Still here.”

“Ah.”

An awkward silence followed. His fingers kept tapping on the table and his leg was bouncing and his skin seemed three sizes too tight to hold all of everything.

“Are you okay?” David’s question was tentative, confused. “Because, by this time, you’re usually talking my ear off.”

“It’s just -” Stiles clipped his sentence short. “I’m not supposed to be doing this.”

“… Doing what?”

“There are protocols,” he continued. “Systems in place. Talking to you like this is so off the books it’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.”

“You’re always ridiculous.”

The words were crystal-clear and soft with something so close to fondness it had Stiles squeezing his thighs with white-knuckled fingers.

“I can’t do this.”

“This.”

“Whatever this is.”

“What is this again?”

“I don’t know!” Stiles snapped, the frayed edges of anger twisting taut. “I don’t know and I should know and that’s the problem. Monica knows about this now and I’m supposed to care, supposed to think about what could happen and I don’t care and that’s why this has to stop.”

“You don’t care?” David sounded genuinely confused and it was almost worse. “I don’t think that’s ever been your problem.”

“I’m not doing this,” Stiles ignored him ( _had to ignore him, for his own sake and David’s sake so they could both get out of this clean_ ). “From now on, I am going to do my job, god dammit.”

“Stiles, are you serious? You think you can take all this back? Just gloss it over like it never existed? Because that’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard and I need this and so do you.”

Stiles hung up.

Silence rang in his ear and the number blinked out from the phone screen and he was wrong. This was the worst.

He tasted blood, ran his tongue along the cut in his lip where his teeth had dug in. It tasted of salt.

The phone rang and he pressed the button to connect.

“Thank you for calling Beacon Hills Crisis Center. This is Stiles. How can I help you?”

“I need someone to talk to.”

Stiles closed his eyes; breath filled his lungs. “I’d be happy to talk to you, sir. First, before we begin, I need to ask you a few questions. Are you currently thinking about suicide?”

“No.”

“Have you thought about suicide in the last two months?”

“… Yes.”

His heart stuttered in his ribs, though he had always known the answer, heard it every time David had gone quiet and thoughtful and hated himself so thoroughly that Stiles could smell it like smoke. “Have you ever attempted suicide in the past?”

“No.”

It was almost like relief, but it hurt too much to be quite the same. “Thank you for answering these questions,” Stiles continued, forcing himself to follow the parameters he had walked so many times before. “What’s going on?”

“… I’ve been alone for a really long time. My family’s dead. All of them. I’ll never see my mom again, or my dad. My little brother would have been fifteen. He was nine when he died. My baby sister was only six. They’re gone and I’m still here.”

“You’re devastated by the loss of your family,” Stiles reflected, the words scraping upwards against the lining of his throat. “You loved them very much and you feel their loss everyday.”

“Yeah, every single day,” David agreed. “I still have my older sister, but she has her own problems, you know? And, now I’m here, in this shitty town I used to call home, and she won’t call, won’t tell me how she’s doing. Drives me up the wall.”

“You feel frustrated because your sister, who’s the only family you have left, won’t keep in contact with you. It’s even worse because you’re back in the place your family used to live.”

“So much worse. It makes me want to tear the town apart and watch it all fall down around me like the way my life.”

David’s voice was like embers and iron and Stiles could feel his skin peeling back, edges charred from the heat. “How have you been coping with all of this?”

There was a heady pause. “Well, I found someone I could talk to. I’m not… I’m not good at talking. But, he is. He’s good at talking in the spaces where I can’t speak, just so I know someone – I needed someone to listen, but more than that, I needed someone to talk to me so I remember I’m not actually dead.”

Stiles drew his knees up to his chest, breathed in the scent of denim. “You’re relieved to have found someone to bear this burden with you even in the smallest way so you feel less alone.”

“Yeah,” David whispered. “He’s a voice in the dark and the only person I can call a friend and the only thing in the fucking mess of my life that’s good.”

The words fell into dust and Stiles couldn’t have spoken had all the words in the world been ready on his tongue.

“But, even that was wrong,” David continued. “He wasn’t supposed to reach out like that. Wasn’t supposed to let me in. Figures, doesn’t it? Should have known better. Everything I touch burns down.”

“Sir – “

“What kind of protocols do you have for that? What kind of procedures do have in place to fix someone like me?”

Stiles sucked in a breath between gritted teeth and scraped his nose further between his knees. His shins bit into the muscle of his forearms. He kept breathing.

“You feel abandoned by this person who you regarded as a friend,” Stiles answered, and it felt like damnation. “You’re hurt that someone who let see you at your most vulnerable would draw back and keep you at a distance.”

“Yeah.” A beat passed, and David cracked a laugh. “I can actually see why this works. It does help, I think. I think it probably helps a lot of people actually. But, I’d rather have him back and clogging up my ears with his ridiculous stories and pop culture references that I pretend I don’t understand just to get him annoyed with me. You know, he thought I had never seen Star Wars? I thought his head was going to explode.”

“You liar of lies!” Stiles blurted out, bolting upright. “I _knew_ you had to have seen the original trilogy, but you kept _insisting_ -“

He caught himself mid-sentence. Sinking back down to this seat, he stared at the dirty scuff marks on the toes of his chucks. “You really care about this person who came into your life when you needed it most,” he whispered, a benediction. “You wish he would stay.”

“Yeah,” David agreed. “I want him to stay. But, I’m not the only person who needed someone. And, I think that’s what I need to most. To be needed by someone. To be necessary. And, he really needs me, he really does, as much as he’ll deny it.”

And, he wanted to. Wanted to cover up everything with fast words and clumsy flailing and sarcasm so sharp it could carve denial into his skin like a blood-drawn tattoo. He bowed his head and swallowed the tide down.

Some things, like gravity, weren’t meant to be denied.

“David?”

Stiles could actually hear the smile like a sound. “There he is,” David murmured. “I was worried that you’d left for good.”

The grin that stretched his face was wide enough to hurt. It felt too good to care. “Never,” Stiles replied. “I’m not the leaving kind.”

“Like a disease without a cure.”

“Did you just compare me to AIDS? Because that’s hurtful, David. I figure I’m something a little fancier, like some obscure toxin that only House can think up. Or maybe Lupus. I’d be down to be Lupus.”

“Lupus.”

“You have a thing against Lupus?”

“… Not at all. I think it suits.”

“Damn straight, it does,” Stiles agreed. Relief bubbled over in his chest like soda fizz, spilling over sticky sweet. “David?”

“Hmm?”

“I have an idea.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“Hey! My ideas are wonderful and fantastic, Haterface.”

“Haterface?”

“Shut up. You don’t know me.”

“Actually, I do.”

Stiles had absolutely no reason to be blushing furiously. No reason at all. Stupid blood vessels. “Anyway, stop distracting me.”

“You could be distracted with a milk top and a piece of string –“

“So not true –“

“Like a kitten. A loud, obnoxious, fluffy kitten hopped on sugar –“

“I’m not fluffy -”

“You have proved my point, not that it was –“

“Do you want my number?”

Silence.

Stiles bit his lower lip; hissed when his teeth scraped against the cut there from before. He waited, but not for long.

“… You would do that?”

“You use an amazing amount of ellipses, you know that?”

“Stiles -”

“Yes,” he cut in. “Yes, I would do that.”

A beat. A breath. “Yeah,” David said. “Yeah, that would – that would be – Yes.”

“Very eloquent.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles laughed and laughed until his eyes burned with tears and he felt cleaner than he had since he had picked up a razor for the first time. “Whatever you say, dude. You knew what you were signing up for,” he wheezed, grinning bright, and he knew David was grinning too.

“I did,” David replied. “I really did.”


	4. The Dirtiest Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Stiles wondered how they had ever got to be so bored that traipsing through the woods to find half a dead body was something like entertainment. What was entertaining, however, was watching Scott bug out over his “wolf” bite and his possible demise from tetanus or rabies. Probably rabies. Seriously, Scott worked at a vet, shouldn’t he know these things?
> 
> Chapter title: [My Moon My Man - Feist](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

School was rapidly approaching and Stiles was less than pleased. It’s not that he wanted summer to continue forever (he was nearly comatose from boredom) but school meant schoolwork and schoolwork meant time taken away from everything else. Added to the fact that the dog days of summer were in full swing and he found himself wishing for a plausible escape route.

“I always get annoyed this time of year,” Monica admitted, sucking down on her smoothie.

Stiles nodded, staring up at the sky outside of the froyo place. Scott was wolfing down his monstrously sweet concoction next to him, and Stiles feared for his teeth. “Trufax.”

“School sucks,” Scott added, mouth still full of Skittles and peach yogurt. “Can’t we just, like, skip the whole thing?”

Monica snorted. “That’s called dropping out and is generally considered a terrible life decision. Unless you’re joining the military or a child pop sensation.”

“I don’t think I’m cut out to be the next Justin Beiber,” Scott mused, which was an understatement. If Scott were a Disney princess, the woodland creatures would stage their own Tiananmen Square.

“You could rock the bowl cut,” Stiles chimed in. “You have the crooked jaw for it. And the lovepuppy eyes. And a smile that’s made of kittens and rainbows and long walks in the summer rain.”

“Shut up. Monica, tell him to shut up.”

“Sorry, Scott, that is a losing battle before it’s even begun.”

“Hey! Offensive.”

They both gave him matching looks and Stiles glared down into his rainbow-colored mochi. “I disown you both. A plague upon your houses.”

Scott gave him a dopey smile while Monica rolled her eyes, which was the perfect representation of the two of them distilled into a single gesture. 

“Shakespeare epithets are so cliched,” Monica drawled.

“I bite my thumb at you.”

“My point stands.”

Stiles was about to parry further (someone who can’t appreciate the Bard is a heathen) when his pocket buzzed sharply. His heart jolted against his sternum, which he ignored in favor of grabbing his phone with steady hands.

_You know what’s irritating? People who say duck tape. It’s DUCT. There’s no waterfowl involved. - D_

Stiles could barely contain his giddy grin, no doubt looking extra ridiculous, as he typed his reply. 

_How do you manage to not go on a murderous rampage? You get annoyed at everything. You probably eat kittens for breakfast. - S_

Stiles tucked his phone back into his pocket just in time to see Scott’s fingers just inches away from stealing his yogurt. Frowning, he snatched it away.

“Dude! Way to break the bro code.”

Monica wrinkled her nose. “There’s bro code for that?”

“Thou shalt not impinge upon another bro’s right to froyo,” Stiles heralded, huffing. “It’s practically a deadly sin.”

Scott looked properly chastened, but sometimes that was just his face. “Sorry, dude. It’s just - you know - mochi is awesome.”

“I concur, but gives you no right to - ”

“Mochi is gross,” Monica interjected.

The two boys stared at her, agape. 

“Are you in Al-Queda?” Scott finally asked.

The two of them started ripping into a heated debate about what constituted proper dessert, and Stiles was about to offer his own opinion when his pocket buzzed again.

_I do not eat kittens. For breakfast or otherwise. - D_

Stiles grinned, fingers flying over his screen.

_Does this mean you have a thing about kittens? I bet you have one of those kitten calendars tacked on your fridge. That’s just too adorable for words. - S_

It was only after Stiles hit send that he realized he had just called David adorable and this could possibly be construed as “flirting.” That terrible sinking in the pit of his stomach confirmed it. Monica and Scott were seconds away from murdering each other over dessert and Stiles was happy to go unnoticed as he went through an existential crisis looking into an empty froyo cup.

The phone buzzed against his palm and he nearly dropped it.

_If I’m going to have a baby animal-themed calendar, it would be otters. - D_

Was he blushing? He couldn’t seriously be blushing right now. That would just be the worst thing ever.

_You like otters? - S_

_Who doesn’t. - D_

_Terrorists? - S_

_There you go. Though you remind me more of a fox kind of guy - D_

Was that a compliment? Stiles wasn’t entirely sure.

_Is that... good? - S_

_They’re clever, quick, and obnoxious. I thought it suited. - D_

Yeah, definitely blushing now.

“Stiles?”

Squeaking (in a very manly fashion), Stiles floundered up to see Scott and Monica giving him equally quizzical looks. 

“What?”

Scott tilted his head like a particularly bemused puppy. “You’re smiling.”

“Uhh, that’s a bad thing?”

Monica interjected. “Allow me to clarify. You’re smiling like a straight-up crazy person. Like you’re either going to burst into song or murder a basket of bunnies.”

Stiles didn’t realize those were the same smiles. “Sorry. I’ll try to keep my smiling under wraps.”

“Who is it?”

The way his pulse suddenly rocketed, it was probably audible to strangers passing by on the street.

“I mean,” Scott continued, oblivious, “you usually only get this grinny about Lydia, and I’m pretty sure you would have told me if she was texting you. Like that one time she held your gaze for more than five seconds and you were ready to lead a parade down Main.”

Stiles remembered that. He was fully and painfully aware how unsubtle his enthusiasm could be. Before he could blurt out anything, he caught Monica’s expression out of the corner of his eye: concerned, suspicious. He heeded the warning.

“Just my crew in my newest MMO,” he said, the lie mixed in truth making it easier to roll of the tongue. “We’re going on a raid later tonight. They’re ridiculous.”

“Cool,” Scott replied, beaming.

Monica just nodded, eyes lost for a moment behind her bangs. “Yeah. Cool.”

Stiles swallowed, nearly jolting from his chair when his phone buzzed in his hand. He couldn’t help but look down.

_This guy has three popped collars. I think that counts as justifiable homicide. - D_

He shouldn’t reply right now. He does anyway.

_Hope you’re not too pretty because I’m not bailing your ass out of jail. - S_

Stiles tucks his phone away, grins. “So, have you two finished the homework for Harris yet?”

* * * * *

Sometimes, Stiles wondered how they had ever got to be so bored that traipsing through the woods to find half a dead body was something like entertainment. What was entertaining, however, was watching Scott bug out over his “wolf” bite and his possible demise from tetanus or rabies. Probably rabies. Seriously, Scott worked at a vet, shouldn’t he know these things?

It wasn’t until Scott was rooting around in the leaves, frantic to find his inhaler, that Stiles felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise, like a cold breath had swept along his skin. He had the distinct feeling of eyes on him, unsettling his stomach, so he wasn’t entirely surprised to see the guy staring at them from just a few yards away as if appearing out of nowhere. He was more surprised at how his stomach flipped and his face threatened to flush red in a way that had nothing to do with autumnal chill.

Though who could blame him, because talk about smoking hot.

“What are you doing here?” The guy barked, glowering at them. How did that not detract from the perfection of his face? Unfair.

Scott made some sort of mumbling explanation, which only made the guy glower harder. He was going to break something like that. Despite the rather impressive scowling on the guy’s behalf (and Stiles needed to think of a better moniker than ‘the guy.’ Hot, Dark, and Ominous?), Stiles couldn’t help but notice the green-sea color of H.D.O’s eyes, currently narrowed in abject loathing, which really shouldn’t produce a flutter of interest but there it was.

Living Wet Dream took a few steps forward and Stiles ducked his head, running his hand threw his shorn hair, because this was definitely not the time to ogle.

“This is private property,” Grumpy Cat (seriously, he could do this all day) snapped, and it was suddenly obvious that the perfect face and chiseled physique were to make up for the shitty personality.

Wait, private property?

The conversation came to its slightly aggressive conclusion, Stiles admittedly distracted by his running thoughts, when Leatherclad Lumberjack stalked away and he felt the answer light up in his head.

He whirled around to Scott. “Dude!” He smacked him for effect. “That was Derek Hale.”

The name Hale was like an urban legend, something to whisper about in the dark at slumber parties and camping trips. He had been pretty young at the time, not much older than ten, but he remembered how his dad had smelled like smoke and his mom had held tight enough to hurt for days afterward. The fire was still an open investigation, a file folder his dad kept in a bin beneath his bed with the other cases he couldn’t put away. He also remembered that the surviving Hales had faded from town until they had disappeared completely, as if they were ghosts themselves.

But, Derek Hale was no longer a ghost. He had come back to Beacon Hills and Stiles couldn’t imagine it was for the warm, fuzzy memories.

Once curious, it was a rare thing for Stiles to let something go rather than chase it down until he had gorged himself on everything there was to know. But, Stiles found himself distracted with the very obvious fact that his best friend was becoming a werewolf. Things like that tended to shift one’s focus.

It wasn’t something that Stiles couldn’t handle, though. He was resourceful, a veritable resource guru. He scoured every reference, every article, managed to secure himself seemingly ancient book from the public library that smelled like dust and decaying ink. He knew Scott wouldn’t be able to do this alone. Not that Scott was weak or terminally stupid. Scott just had different strengths (unwavering acceptance, endless compassion), things that Stiles would sometimes look for inside himself only to find empty hollows. Scott could never be hollowed; he was filled to the brim to the point where Stiles nearly choked on it. Stiles never doubted Scott’s many strengths. This, simply, wasn’t one of them.

Of course, Scott’s strong points were melting into puddles of goo at the very mention of the name “Allison” but Stiles couldn’t blame him but so much. Allison was undeniably gorgeous with a gumption that he admired, though the whole werewolf hunter father was not exactly in her favor. The fact that her father (however unknowingly) wanted to murder him and tack his puppy pelt to the wall did little to deter Scott. Stiles felt that would be a deal breaker if it were him. Then again, Lydia Martin treated him like a bug on the bottom of her Prada shoes and that somehow had avoided deal breaker status. Worshipping her from a distance had worked so far, so if it ain't broke, don’t fix it. Aside from the newly-minted inclusion of murderous supernatural forces, his life was pathetic.

Still, at least he wasn’t as stupid as Scott.

“You went to the Hale house? Alone?”

“Yeah,” Scot affirmed. “And, that’s when I smelled the blood.”

And, when the conversation wrapped up, Stiles was unwaveringly certain that Derek Hale, aggressively attractive werewolf (because, in the end, no one that good-looking could be human), had ripped a girl in half and buried her in his backyard. And, the two of them were going to prove it.

They agreed to meet at Scott’s place at nightfall before driving to the woods, leaving Stiles with a few hours to kill. He holed up in his room, blasting The Raconteurs and getting a headstart on his school work. Mr. Harris had already assigned an enormous lab report and Stiles must have murdered a basket of kittens in his past life because the man straight up despised him and made very little effort to conceal the fact. Just because that one time he couldn’t help but blurt out in front of the whole class that it was ammonia with a smaller bond angle than methane and not the other way around due to the lone pair electrons, Mr. Harris had made it his personal quest to make his life as miserable as possible.

He would have succeeded, but his position was recently usurped by werewolves.

Stiles paused over the textbook, trying to memorize the molecular structure of adenine triphosphate, when his phone buzzed on his desk. Glancing over, he saw the familiar name lighting up the screen and swiped the call open.

“It’s like you know when homework is about to fry my brain,” he said, ignoring basic pleasantries. Not like David really minded. “What’s up?”

There was a thick silence in reply and it was enough for Stiles to know something was horribly wrong. “David,” he began, straightening up in his chair, his chemistry book falling off his knees, “what happened? Are you okay?”

A heavy breath, cracked and full of grit. “Just talk to me,” David finally said. “I just... I need you to talk to me.”

“David, tell me what’s wrong.” They had passed this point of unsteady footing, of not knowing when to push, months ago and he was not going to fall backwards now.

“Please.”

Stiles nearly swallowed his tongue, bowing his head in defeat. Godammit, that was his Kryptonite and David knew it.

“Only for now,” he warned, gentle but sincere. “You will tell me later.”

“Okay,” David promised, his voice barely there. “Okay, I will.”

So Stiles talked and talked, filling the tension with sarcasm and quips and pop culture references, desperately ignoring the questions crowding inside his head. It reminded him of the first few times David had called the Crisis Center, when he could only manage stilted replies and uneasy grunts.

“So, I decided to sing the new Taylor Swift song every time he was up to make a shot,” Stiles explained, his left knee bouncing. “Sure, he only missed, like, twice, but in Jackon’s world that’s equivalent to Waterloo. Of course, he’ll track me down and pummel me, but it’ll be worth it.”

David made a disgruntled noise. “Does that happen a lot?”

Stiles shrugged. “Not since I grew, like, six inches, but Jackson’s inability to solve disputes nonviolently is incurable.”

“It just doesn’t seem fair.”

Stiles ignored the curl of warmth that produced, because if something wasn’t fair it was that. “Life’s not fair, dude. That’s practically my family crest.”

“I just... I don’t like it.”

The sarcastic retort got tangled up somewhere by his molars and Stiles found himself suddenly unsure of what to say. He had already blurred the lines between the two of them when he had offered David his personal number. Monica would have a fit if she found that particular kernel of information. Realistically speaking, Stiles was crashing through every ethical standard imaginable. But, what made it worth it, and so much more dangerous, was how the concern in David’s voice made his chest constrict.

“Look, it’s...” Stiles tried to straighten out his thoughts into something resembling speech. “It’s fine. Well, not fine, but it’s okay. It’s just Jackson and I’ve been dealing with his douchebaggery for years. It’s old hat now.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“It’s just not right.”

“Might is right in the real world.”

“Goddammit, Stiles!”

David’s voice shot through like a bullet, tearing through flesh and muscle and leaving a ragged path in its wake. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel blood sliding down his ribs. Stiles sucked in a breath. 

“What happened?” He asked.

The following silence was thick, like a mouthful of blood.

“Have you ever wanted to die?” David murmured.

There were codes for this, proper channels he should take, scripts he should recite. “Yes.”.

“How - ” David’s voice was unsteady. “Why did you stay?”

That answer, at least, was easy. “My dad,” he replied. “I couldn’t leave him behind. I didn’t have the heart to do that to him. It would have been selfish of me. So, I stayed.”

Stiles didn’t mention the collection of razor blades he had kept under his skin in a leather carrying case, the rubbing alcohol and cotton to keep the steel clean.

“I don’t have my dad,” David said. “He’s dead. Don’t have my mom either. She’s dead too.”

The words rang with an emptiness that Stiles was unbearably familiar with. “You have your sister,” Stiles asserted. “She’s a reason to stay.”

There was a choked noise in response and Stiles’ stomach filled with lead, sinking beneath the weight, because that sound told him everything he didn’t want to know.

“David.” And, God, he didn’t want it to be true, but there was a dead girl in the morgue and David was unraveling like he had been the one torn to pieces. “Is it her? Is it - ”

“Yes.”

The reply only confirmed what Stiles already knew but it hurt anyway, like embers tossed into his stomach lining. To think he’d though it had been some sort of adventure to find David’s sister in the woods. Guilt knotted up inside him, throbbing in his cheekbones and his fingers twitching. His pulse ratcheted up and he could feel the beginnings of a panic attack bleeding into him - soaking into his lungs - and he couldn’t let that happen because David needed - needed him right now -

A thought occured. His mind stilled instantly as rage swept through him, brushing the edges of panic away and leaving only ice. One thought.

_She had been murdered by Derek Hale._

“I just - ” David’s cigarette voice was choked with ashes. “You stayed for your dad and I stayed for her. But, she’s gone now. Gone and all that’s left is - ”

“Me.” Stiles’ reply was steel-glazed and razor sharp. “You have me, David, and I swear to God we will figure out who did this and they will not get away with it. We will make them fucking pay for this, you hear me?”

A growl tore down the line, low and almost inhuman, and it sent hot shivers down his spine, made him want to snap his teeth. “I hear you,” David snarled. “I hear you.”

Stiles thought about those words while he drove over to Scott’s house, while they crossed town and into the woods. He heard them as the shadow of Derek Hale got into his car and drove off into the darkness. Even as his arms ached and his t-shirt clung sweat-sticky to his back, he refused to forget. It still didn’t prepare him when they finally unearthed what lay beneath and came face-to-face with the corpse of a wolf.  
Confusion and temper stuck tacky inside his skull as he tried to parse together a picture, the growing dread curdling sour in his belly. It built with every loop of rope around his arm, the smell of wolfsbane burning his nostrils. The spiral undone, he looked down into the pit and into the film-glazed eyes of David’s sister.

Who had once been a werewolf.

Too many questions were ricocheting in his head, like a pinball machine in his frontal lobe. Did David know? Is that why she had come back, made sure he kept away? Was she looking for answers? For a cure?

What was he going to tell David?

Stiles stared out from the treeline, leaning against the trunk of a tree as he watched Derek Hale led from the burnt-out ruin of his house with handcuffs firmly on his wrists. The guy look unconcerned, annoyed even, as if this were a minor inconvenience in his daily schedule of creeping and murder. Stiles bristled at the very thought, irritation blistering over the fear, knowing this guy was allowing himself to be held in cuffs, that he could tear them all apart before any rounds were fired.

Good thing Stiles was gifted with little to no self-preservation.

He stalked over to the patrol car, swinging himself inside the passenger seat and whirling around to glare at the man in the backseat through the metal grill.

“I am not afraid of you.”

Derek looked up at him, green-sea eyes iced over, a muscle jumping along his tensed jawline.

Stiles swallowed. “Okay, maybe I am.”

The werewolf leaned forward and Stiles caught the scent of leather and spice and forest. The guy lives in an abandoned husk in the middle of the woods with absolutely no working facilities and he still manages to smell better than Armani? Bastard.

“Are you prepared for what could happen?” Derek hissed. He was closer now and no less threatening in handcuffs than he was unchained. “When your friend changes on the field, what then?”

Stiles hated that he was right. Scott was so caught up in playing in the stupid game that the whole homicidal rage thing seemed to fade into the background, as if nearly mauling your best friend to death wasn’t a big enough example of how very out of control he really was. But, Scott was his best friend, even furry with sharp, pointy teeth, and Derek was a murdering psychopath so there was no contest in whose side he was taking.

“Do you think you can stop him?” Derek’s voice was a low rumble, vibrating between them and raising the hair on the back of his neck. Echoing low in his gut in a way that was almost familiar. “Do you?”

He would have said something, anything, but he found himself yanked out of the car and straight into his dad’s disappointed glare.

“What are you doing?”

As if Stiles hadn’t nearly single-handedly giftwrapped a wanted felon for him. Where was the gratitude?

He shuffled away from the latest awkward conversation from hell, which didn’t even crack the top ten but certainly would make dinner that night interesting, when his dad called out.

“Stiles!”

He turned around, cursing beneath his breath at his foiled escape, and was suddenly caught up in Derek’s seafoam gaze, his expression one of horrified surprise, shattered and shocked. It lasted only a single, breathless moment before his features blanked out again, turning his face away. But, Stiles could feel those eyes boring holes into his shoulder blades even as he walked away, drove back home, collapsed in his bed and buried his face into his pillow. Maybe if he ran fast enough, hid low enough, closed his eyes for long enough, he could ignore the slow realization eating up his veins like acid.

Because Derek Hale had a voice like cigarette smoke.

* * * * *

His phone was silent.

It wouldn’t have bothered him before. It’s not like Scott ever called him, just texted him randomly throughout the day and his dad had the strangest abhorrence to anything technological, avoiding his phone whenever possible in lieu of shouting at Stiles to come downstairs. He tried not to think about it at school next day, buzzing at the back of his mind while Scott waxed on about how the light caught in Allison’s hair. He tried not to think about it during practice, getting knocked down twice when his glance toward the woods had stopped him in place. And, he definitely wasn’t thinking about it when he went home, eyes flicking toward the phone every minute or so as he pretended he was doing his homework, realizing that he had written only half a sentence an hour later.

Yup, Stiles was successfully not thinking about it.

However, it was imperative that his mind ignored anything Derek-related for the time being because he was rather preoccupied with keeping Scott from disemboweling the entire lacrosse team during the game. He loved the guy like a brother but seriously, priorities. It actually seemed like everything would go off without too much bloodshed, until Scott seemed to be breathing heavy like a rabid dog and Stiles twisted the glove nervously between his teeth.

 _This cannot be good_ , he thought, his leg bouncing with excess energy. _This is the opposite of good._

But, somehow, Scott managed to keep his murderous instincts reigned just enough to score the winning goal without massacring the opposing team. It was only when the stands erupted, the crowd spilling out from the stands, that he lost sight of his (hopefully still unfurry) friend.

“Shit,” he muttered, looking around frantic but knowing it was pointless. “Shit -shit -shit on toast.”

“Stiles.”

He whirled around. “Hey, dad,” he said, ignoring the worry itching under his skin. “What’s up?”

“Congratulations on the game,” his dad replied. “Though I would like to see you actually play sometime.”

Stiles made a rude noise. “Take that up with Finstock because the bench is pretty much my claimed territory, fortified from all invaders.”

His dad shook his head in that fond but exasperated way that Stiles seemed to inspire daily. He was about to say something else when his cell phone distracted him.

“Sheriff Stilinski,” he answered, turning away as if that could prevent Stiles from eavesdropping. Concrete walls couldn’t manage such a thing, so he had no one else to blame for catching bits and phrases like _animal wounds - evidence - positive ID - released_. His dad kept his answers clipped and vague before hanging up, running his fingers over his face.

“Dad, what is it?” Stiles asked, tugging on his sleeve like an impatient five-year-old.

“It was the coroner,” he explained. “He identified the cause of death to be internal hemorrhage as a result of animal trauma. Bite wounds, specifically.”

Stiles closed his eyes but that just made the images worse. “And?”

“And, as the cause of death is officially determined to be animal in nature, Derek Hale is no longer a viable suspect. He has been released.”

His pulse, like drums, sounded in his head, thrumming all the through his teeth.

“There’s more,” his dad continued. “Fingerprint identification has confirmed Jane Doe’s identity as Laura Hale.”

The drumming noise was louder, filling his temples with relentless sound. “Laura... Hale?”

“Derek’s sister.”

The drumming stopped.

His dad said something to him before walking away, raising his hand in farewell. The crowd pressed around him and Stiles heard nothing. There was no hiding from it now, no ignoring it until it went away. He just hadn’t accounted for how his sternum would threaten to unzip and spill the hurt out onto the ground.

Not because David (Derek) had lied. But, because David wasn’t real and he had whispered in the dark to someone who didn’t exist, told his secrets to someone he didn’t think he could trust (he had though. Had trusted that cigarette voice on the other end of the phone line like he trusted the sun to rise). He had lost someone who had never been and a stranger stood in their place. But, the question that buried under his skin like a living needle was how much of Derek (David) was actually a stranger.

And, though trust lay shattered at his feet, there was truth glaring up at him from among the wreckage. Derek had not killed his sister. He knew it like he knew the veins in his wrists, the scars on his skin. Which left another truth in its place.

Someone had killed Laura Hale and that was the thing to fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue from the episodes is different, because I didn't have the energy/time to perfectly recite each episode. Plus, as it's not quite canon, I figured it was okay.


	5. (Many) Shades of Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek handed him a bone saw. “You’re going to cut off my arm.”  
> Yup. This was a fucking terrible idea.
> 
> Chapter title: [Many Shades of Black - The Raconteurs](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

Stiles liked to think of himself as a non-judgmental kind of guy. Someone who can take a look at the mitigating circumstances before determining someone’s guilt or innocence. His dad was the Sheriff after all. He had a built-in respect for innocent until proven guilty.

That being said, he still wanted to punch Derek in the face. Repeatedly.

“And, that’s all he would tell you?” He asked, frenetic and frustrated and unable to keep from pacing the length of his room. He had nearly jumped out of his skin when Scott had tumbled through his open window in the middle of the night. When he had seen the gaping claw marks tearing through his shirt, tinged with already dried blood, his heart had nearly stopped in his chest. As it was, this supernatural business was going to give him a massive coronary before he reached graduation.

Scott nodded, rubbing at his already-healed jaw. "Yeah. Apparently, he doesn't know who the Alpha is either."

Stiles couldn't help the annoyed, strangled sounds gurgling in his throat. "So, his whole annoying cryptic schtick is just a cover for his complete ignorance on everything werewolfy. Awesome. The guy is just a FOUNT of knowledge."

"He didn't seem really happy about it."

"I can only imagine," Stiles muttered. David (Derek, his name is Derek) had too much pride to admit when he was wrong. Or worse, ignorant. The fact that the last piece of his family was gone and that he didn't know anything about who or why or what had happened must be driving him up the walls. Which would explain Derek's complete and utter failure at basic human communication.

"Anyway," Scott continued, "I really don't have much of a choice. Either I help him out with all this or I might... you know. I might hurt someone."

Stiles closed his eyes. "I don't like it."

"Me neither. But, I don't think Derek wants to hurt anybody. Except the Alpha. He'd really like to hurt the Alpha."

Sense-memory burned through him, remembering the low growl vibrating in his ear as Derek promised to avenge his sister's death. There was no doubt in Stiles' mind how much Derek wanted that chance. He just didn't want Scott caught in the crossfire of something he wasn't prepared to handle.

"We'll figure something out," Stiles promised. 

He watched Scott hop out of his window, still so much himself despite the wolf beneath his skin. It was that that hopeful smile that had Stiles grabbing his phone, pulling up **DAVID** and changing it to just **D** before pressing send.

Ring. Ring. Ring. "You have reached -"

Stiles hung up. Redialed.

Ring. Ring. Ring. "You have -"

"You bastard," Stiles muttered, redialing again. "Pick up your goddamn phone or I'll rip your little wolfy head off."

Ring. Ring. Click. "... Stiles."

Hearing that cigarette voice had his pulse stuttering and his temper sparking heat in his temples. "David. Oh, I'm sorry. I guess it's actually Derek. Silly me."

"What do you want," Derek bit out.

"Answers," Stiles snapped. "I want all of them in alphabetical order and with pages of footnotes because I found out you were Derek fucking Hale three days ago and I'm already tired of your werewolf shit."

There was a barely constrained snarl, and Stiles found himself wondering how he had ever thought David was _human_. "You don't have anything to do with it," Derek snapped. "Stay out of it."

"No can do, asshole. Scott's in it, therefore I'm in it. That's how this works."

"Not with me."

"You see, you say that, but I could really care less what you think," Stiles sniped, raking his nails across his scalp. "Because, Scott's my best friend and that's what friends do and, despite the complete radio silence and beating the shit out of my best friend - which we're going to have serious words about, by the way - I promised you, didn't I?"

A stunned silence followed, punctuated only by his messy, angry breathing post-rant.

"... What promise?"

Stiles rolled his eyes, because how could one person be so incredibly obtuse. "Dude, it was not that long ago."

"Remind me."

"I said -" Stiles stopped. Swallowed. "I said that I was in this with you, okay? That you - you have me."

Derek didn't answer, and Stiles felt claws drag along his intestines in anticipation.

"I know," Derek finally replied. "I know, but things change.”

"That's an understatement," Stiles shot back. "But, some things don't. They don't have to anyway."

Derek made a frustrated noise. "Sometimes, you don't have a choice. Things change and there is nothing you can do about it and I just - I can't do this, Stiles!”

The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach threatened to swallow him whole and the escape would have been welcome. He breathed in instead. "I thought you needed me."

"I..." Derek trailed off, and it was answer enough. "I can't."

Hurt twisted up inside him and it was always easier to be angry, to burn away the ache radiating through his skeleton and leave his bones to ash. 

"Fine," Stiles snapped. "I get it. Don't let anyone get too close or otherwise you'll get hurt. But, here's the thing, Derek. If you don't let anyone close, you'll always end up alone, and what then?"

"It's safer," Derek snarled out, heated. "And, don't act the martyr, Stilinski. Don't pretend like you aren't better off."

"Are you serious?" He shouted, his nails biting his palm. "This is just like you, projecting your own emotional constipation onto me. Because, if there's a martyr here, Derek, it's you."

"At least I'm not some hormonal teenage reject. Were you jealous, Stiles? Scott's the one who’s got the girl, got the strength and the speed, and it's only a matter of time before he outruns you. You'll be left behind and alone and then what good will your promises be?"

If he closed his eyes, Stiles could almost hear the sound of his ribs cracking, the sputtering sound of his blood from torn arteries. He closed his eyes.

"Fuck you, Derek.”

He hung up.

The line was dead, but the words didn’t stop circling through his head throughout the weekend, churning up old muck and debris long since dormant. Desperate for distraction, Stiles dove back into werewolf research, which he found was either highly inaccurate or full of porny bits (seriously, knotting would now forever haunt his nightmares). It took him forever to scour down more legitimate websites masked as WoW forums and fanfiction archives. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

That being said, Monday dragged itself in and Stiles was still struggling for a foothold.

“Okay, let’s rehash,” he started, slumping into his desk chair.

Scott shifted uneasy in his seat. “Not sure how that will help.”

“I hate unanswered questions, Scott. This is why Wikipedia is a necessary component in my life.”

Scott tossed him a look over his shoulder. “Fine. Just, get on with it.”

Permission granted, and Stiles was suddenly unsure of where to start. He glanced up, watched the teacher handing out last week’s exam to very distraught teenagers. The normalcy of it was almost more strange than dealing with Scott’s new furry abilities. What that said about his life, he wasn’t sure, though Stiles was certain therapy would be involved in the answer.

Stiles wacked Scott’s shoulder with his pencil. “If Derek isn’t the Alpha, if he isn’t the one that bit you, who did?”

Scott shook his head. “I don’t know.”

That wasn’t very satisfying. “Did the Alpha kill the bus driver?”

“I don’t know.”

He leaned back for a moment, pursing his mouth. Not having answers was the absolute worst. Stiles pressed forward again. “Does Allison’s dad know about the Alpha?”

This time, Scott whipped around. “I don’t know!”

Awesome. Now everyone was staring at them. Stiles was happy to ignore the confused looks from his classmates (it was actually almost comforting), and scanned his eyes over his test. He had expected the **A** , despite having gotten distracted during his study session to perfect how to fold an origami crane. Flicking his eyes forward, Stiles saw the big, bright **D** on Scott’s test and grimaced.

“Dude, you need to study more.”

Scott did not appreciate the critique. But, his best friend did admit to having a “study session” planned with Allison later that day, which had Stiles’ doing an internal Snoopy dance. It was only fair that one of them start having Lady Luck grace them with romantic fortune. Lydia had glanced at him the other day without making a face like she had smelled something awful, which was huge progress on that front. Stiles was always happy to count his blessings. But, Scott, after all the bullshit of these past few weeks, was in desperate need of a break. A sexy break. With tongues and stuff.

“If you squander this opportunity, I swear I’ll de-ball you - ”

“Okay!” Scott twisted around in his seat, and was doing the full-force puppy eyes. “Just, no more questions.”

It was like asking Jackson Whittemore to not be such a douchebag. But, it was the least he could do.

“Done,” Stiles accepted, leaning back in his chair. “No more questions. No more talk about the Alpha - or Derek. Especially Derek.”

Memories scrapped at the inside of his skull, of cigarette smoke laughter and seafoam eyes and _you'll be left behind_.

“Who still scares me.”

* * * * * 

The last thing he needed in the wretched mess that was his life was to see Derek Hale, pale-faced and trembling, walking out in front of his car with his hand raised, as if he were Keanu Reeves in the Matrix.

“Holy God!”

He slammed on the brakes and hoped this was some incredibly realistic, waking nightmare. Derek merely swayed in place, and Stiles was less than pleased at his current reality.

"Nope," Stiles muttered, honking the horn. "Nope, nope, nope, I refuse to play your stupid games today."

When Derek collapsed on the ground, his throat closed up.

"You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he managed, because sarcasm was easier than the mess clogging up his insides. “This guy is everywhere.”

Scott was already there the moment his door closed, crouching over Derek. Stiles stood over them, torn between pushing Scott away and running back to his Jeep to drive off and never looking back. Instead, he shuffled back and forth, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans.

“I was shot,” Derek confessed, and Stiles tried to swallow down the nervous flutter of his rapidly rising heartbeat. He stopped trying to swallow it down when Derek’s eyes flashed electric blue. He knew what that meant and he knew it was not good.

Scott swung behind Derek, hauling him to his feet. “Help me get him into you car.”

And, this is how Stiles came to have Derek Hale, colossal failwolf and asshole extraordinaire, in the passenger seat of his jeep.

He glared at Scott. “I hate you for this so much.”

But, because he was the best friend in the history of friends, Stiles said nothing else, just pealed out of the school parking lot with his latest nightmare unfolding right next to him.

Stiles drove aimlessly for awhile, trying to ignore the horrible silence between them. Derek was panting in his seat, slumped over against the door. He was sickly pale, sweat sticking to his forehead, and his eyes were closed as he sucked in gulps of air. There was a smell of something burning, like the singed edges of a festering wound, and it made Stiles’ eyes sting.

He should probably remain silent. It would be the best course of action. Derek, despite having trusted him with secrets for three months, had proven quite conclusively that he had finally gotten sick of the too-talkative teenage boy that he had sought out for help time after time. The boy he had called when his sister had been ripped in half and left in the woods, who he had begged to stay on the phone when Stiles had been ready to leave.

Right. Fuck this. “So, what’s the plan?”

Derek didn’t deign to reply. What a shocker.

“I feel like you are unaware that you are the one at a disadvantage here,” Stiles continued. “You’re in my car. We’re going forty-five miles an hour. In an enclosed space. Talking is going to happen whether you like it or not.”

Silence.

“You see, you can give me this silent schtick all you want, but I will just take that as permission to keep to conversation going myself. And, boy, do I have an array of topics that I can regale you with. Did you know I wrote a ten page essay on the history of male circumcision? It started in - ”

“Stiles.”

“See how easy that was?” 

“Shut. Up.”

“Laying out the full stops, I see,” Stiles snarked. “I swear someday that I’m going to get you speaking in more than monosyllabic responses. I’ll throw a goddamn party.”

“You do that.”

“I will.”

They lapsed into silence again, all but for Derek’s ragged breathing and occasional hiss of pain. Stiles had been in many an awkward situation (had been the cause for most of them), but this had him feeling unsettled and itchy, like a half-formed scab over a paper cut. All he wanted to do was scratch it open.

The light at the intersection turned red, and Stiles took the opportunity to shoot out a quick text to Scott. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, turning down Yardsley toward the outskirts of town. The text jingle nearly sent him careening into a tree, but he managed to flick open the message without crashing the jeep. However, the reply from Scott for more time wasn’t doing anything to help his blood pressure.

Taking another left, Stiles hazarded a glance at the passenger seat. It was like the proverbial white elephant in the room. Only it was a bleeding werewolf and an old jeep. The metaphor still stood.

“Try not to bleed out on my seats, okay? We’re almost there.”

Derek managed to lift his head. “Where?”

“Your house?”

“What?” Derek wheezed out. “You can’t take me there.”

Stiles scoffed, “I can’t take you to your own house?”

“Not when I can’t protect myself,”

Gritting his teeth, Stiles yanked the steering wheel to the side, guiding the jeep to the side of the road. The moment it stopped, he shoved the gear into park. Yeah, they were going to hash this shit out right now.

Stiles twisted, facing Derek full-on like a battle stance. “What happens if Scott doesn’t find your little magic bullet? Hmm? Are you dying?”

The last question came out tempered and dripping disdain, and Stiles hoped Derek was too focused on not bleeding to death to hear the stumble in his heart beat at the thought.

Derek shook his head. “Not yet.”

That was not terribly comforting.

“I have a last resort.”

Even less comforting.

“What do you mean? What last resort?” Stiles demanded, irritation pounding in his temples.

Rather than answer, Derek pulled up the bloodied fabric of his sleeve, revealing a crusted hole in his arm with blackened veins twisted outwards beneath his skin. It looked like something out of the Walking Dead and smelled twice as bad as he imagined. 

Stiles managed not to vomit, which was a considerable achievement. “Oh my God, what is that? Oh, is that contagious?” He made a face, turning away. The full force of what was happening to Derek was beginning to come to him in waves, but he was still angry enough not to care. “You know, you should probably just get out.”

For the first time since they had confronted each other in the back of his dad’s cruiser, Derek looked at him straight on. “Start the car. Now.”

Stiles was officially done with this shit. “I don’t think you should be barking orders with the way you look, okay?” He fumed. “In fact, I think that if I wanted to, I could probably drag your little werewolf ass into the middle of the road and leave you for dead.”

Derek didn’t look away, and Stiles hated those seafoam eyes and that stubborn intensity aimed entirely at him and how he was the last person in the world that the werewolf wanted to see and he hated it. He hated everything.

“Start the car. Or I’m going to rip your throat out. With my teeth.”

But, mostly, he hated Derek Hale.

Pursing his mouth, he snapped his eyes towards the road, sliding the car into gear. He chewed on his words like gristle in his teeth but said nothing. It wasn’t fear numbing his tongue (that was prettiest much the emptiest threat in the history of threats). But, it tore something inside him to hear that cigarette voice twisted in disdain, that same voice that had whispered secrets in his ear. Stiles bit his tongue; the blood was bitter in his mouth. If this was how Derek wanted things, then fine. The name of the game was mutual loathing, and Stiles was more than happy to play.

Having finally been directed to Deaton’s (because Scott was being massively unhelpful), Stiles yanked the jeep to a stop. He didn’t even wait for Derek to follow, just went to find the stupid key to open this stupid door so he could get out of this stupid situation.

Derek shuffled in after him and collapsed onto the bags of dog food and Stiles was suddenly face-to-face with the very likely possibility of the werewolf’s death. After deciding on the hate thing, Stiles wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it. His mind whited out for a too-long moment, mouth finally empty of chewed up words, at the thought of Derek’s seafoam eyes forever empty. But, the moment ended and he swallowed everything down like salt water.

“So, what do we do?” He asked.

Derek’s face was paler than before, if that was even possible. His chest heaved with every breath, like it was an effort to expand his lungs. Stiles could almost hear the echoes of a heart rate monitor, the smell of antiseptic. “Scott might not make it back in time.”

“That is looking more and more likely.”

Derek shuddered before swinging himself back on his feet, swaying unsteady. “I guess it’s plan B then.”

“Uhh,” Stiles began. “What does that entail?”

Derek ignored him in favor of asking him where the main exam room was. Already committed to this increasingly horrible situation, Stiles led him down the hall and pushed open the exam room doors. The room was half-lit with fluorescent lights; the room smelled of disinfectant and dog hair. He was about to say something (a scathing remark about updating vaccines) when Derek stepped around the table completely shirtless like that was a normal thing that normal people did and, Holy Moses, those skin-tight henleys were not falsely advertising. Did Greek god physiques come with the whole wolfy package or was this all Derek? Maybe some totally unfair combination of the two. Somehow, being coated in sweat and sickly pallor did nothing to detract from the view. And, Stiles appreciated a good view.

Though the gaping wound certainly distracted from the overall aesthetic.

“You know that really doesn’t look like anything some echinacea and a good night’s sleep couldn’t take care of?” Stiles blurted out.

Derek was tying an elastic tourniquet around his bicep with his teeth, and that really shouldn’t be sexy. Nothing about this was sexy. Goddamnit.

“If the infection reaches my heart,” Derek bit out around the elastic, “it’ll kill me.”

Stiles couldn’t have rolled his eyes any harder without suffering permanent brain damage. “Positivity just isn’t in your vocabulary, is it.”

“If he doesn’t get here with the bullet in time, last resort.”

Derek had used that phrase last time - last resort - and it didn’t make Stiles feel any more comforted than when he had first heard it. It sounded like a terrible, terrible idea and he didn’t even know what it was yet.

“Which is?”

Derek handed him a bone saw. “You’re going to cut off my arm.”

Yup. This was a fucking terrible idea.

Derek seemed to think it was a great idea, however, despite the fact that he was about to forever traumatize a sixteen-year-old boy and probably wouldn’t live long enough after the sepsis set in to pay for the therapy bills. He even went as far as being scornfully shocked at Stiles’ totally legitimate reaction to his plan. Stiles wasn’t grossed out by blood, not in the slightest. He had seen enough of it (his own, anyway) to have no issues on that front. Disembodied limbs, on the other hand (worst unintentional pun ever), were an entirely different story.

“Alright, fine,” Derek huffed, and Stiles was sort of amazed at how the guy could be so sassy this perilously close to death. “How about this. Either you cut off my arm or I’m going to cut off your head.”

Too bad his sass was mostly a front for murderous intent.

“Okay, you know what, I’m so not buying your threats - ”

Stiles hadn’t expected many of things that had happened today to happen. But, having Derek’s hand twist in his shirt and yank him across the table so he could feel angry breath smear across his cheek and the pure, radiating heat of him all along his front - it was dizzying. Not so much in a _I’m totally about to be murdered_ way as in a _fuck, that is a lot of naked, chiseled chest right there_. Apparently, he was more than a bit bisexual (curse Monica and her knowing of everything), and if there was an award for most inappropriate reaction, Stiles was winning it right this very second.

“OH MY GOD!” He yelped, refocusing on the murder and imminent death instead. “Okay - fine - totally, totally - I’ll do it.”

Derek said nothing, just tightened his grip as he leaned over to vomit black blood all over the floor.

Stiles was on the verge of following the trend. “Holy God, what the hell is that?”

“My body is trying to heal itself,” Derek hissed, lips slick with blood like oil.

“Well, it’s not doing a very good job of it.”

Derek let go then, presenting the tourniquet-tied arm and the saw was back in Stiles’ hands and he was doing this. He was really doing this. Derek was yelling and Stiles saw his eyes flash electric blue and somehow he knew it was fear. Derek was terrified and ready to have his arm sliced off just to survive, and Stiles had the horrible, sickening feeling that this wasn’t new for Derek. That he had faced other, just as terrible decisions in order to survive. It was that thought that had him lowering his hands, resting the blade against that mottled skin. If there was something he could do to have Derek Hale alive for one more day, he would do it.

Even knowing that, he had never been more relieved in his life to see Scott. It would only make sense that everything would fall apart just at that moment. For a single, blinding second, Derek was staring at a bullet like it was salvation and then he was crumbling to the floor.

It was a good thing that Scott was focused on the bullet racing across the floor, because all Stiles could do was tumble after Derek to cradle his face in his hands.

“Derek? Derek, come on, wake up!”

Panic was flooding his system, the gates thrown open and soaking his nerve endings in adrenaline. Derek was paler than death, his chest flat and still. Stiles couldn’t feel any breath on his fingers. His heart threatened to wrench open and spill everything onto the floor, like black-within-black blood.

“He’s not waking up!” His words were strangled with unwilling string. Because he remembered the last time someone had fallen asleep and hadn’t woken up. He had been holding her hand at the time. “I think he’s dying. I think he’s dead.”

Derek’s face was slack, still warm beneath his palms but so very pale. His trembling fingers traced along the sharp line of those cheekbones. He clenched his eyes and he could almost hear that cigarette voice that he might never hear again.

“I got it!” Scott shouted, and Stiles opened his eyes.

“Please don’t kill me for this.”

He slammed his fist in Derek’s jaw, and the hideous pain radiating in his knuckles was absolutely worth seeing those seafoam eyes open again. He watched as Derek stumbled to his feet, ripped open the bullet with nothing more than teeth. The smell of the wolfsbane was sharp and not at all pleasant when Derek set it on fire. It was even less pleasant seeing Derek hesitate that brief moment before shoving it into his wound.

Stiles watched in sick fascination (and it was sick, because Derek was obviously wracked with pain) as the blackness reversed its course, threading backwards through Derek’s veins. With a last, tortured roar, the black sizzled out and the wound disappeared as if it had never been.

“That was AWESOME!” Stiles blurted out, the adrenaline too much to control his mouth filter. “Yes!”

“You okay?” Scott asked.

Derek managed to sit up, glaring at them.“Except for the agonizing pain?”

The relief in his blood was palpable, because if Derek was healthy enough to sass, it meant he had really survived to see another day. Of course, that meant another day of hating Stiles, but a bird in the hand and all that. “I’m guessing the ability to use sarcasm is a good sign of health.”

Derek glowered him before clambering to his feet. He was a healthy, pale-gold color again and still shirtless and Stiles was suddenly reminded that the reactions he had been having before were less inappropriate now that Derek wasn’t in immediate danger of dying horribly. He should probably leave soon before the tables were turned and he was the one about to be killed.

“So,” Stiles began, “this was fun, but I could do without the near-dismemberment in the future. Just as a note.”

Derek didn’t deign him with a reply, instead focusing on Scott with more werewolfy business, which Stiles was not jealous about. No way was he jealous that Scott was somehow part of this sacred supernatural brotherhood and Derek had let him in his life as he kicked Stiles out of it. The two of them didn’t even bother looking back as they left the vet, which was fine because Stiles didn’t need a thank you. Even if he did mutter about it all the way to his jeep, cursing about ungrateful assholes that bleed all over his jeep and threaten him with teeth and whose life he had just helped save.

Sighing, he knocked his forehead against the jeep’s door. “I’m such an idiot.”

“That was never up for debate.”

Stiles nearly brained himself whirling around to face Derek, the creeping creeper who was intent on giving him a heart attack before twenty. He was fully dressed, leather jacket like armor around his shoulders, and his face was set in a stony glower. Derek was really at full health again. Peachy.

“Well, this idiot was the one that helped save your life so whatever,” Stiles sniped. He stared at the toes of his shoes, the white toes spattered with blackened blood.

“... I know.”

Stiles glanced up, and Derek was almost looking at him but not quite, as if catching his gaze was too much for him to handle right now. He saw the tension in his shoulders and how his fists kept clenching and, if he squinted hard enough, he could almost see the pale pink coloring the tip of the man’s ears. Just like that, all the ugliness uncoiled itself, leaving him more relaxed than he’d been in days.

“You’re welcome, Derek.”

Derek caught his eyes then, almost surprised. After a moment, he nodded. Stiles watched him walk back to his Camaro, Scott waiting in the front seat, and he knew that it wasn’t too late after all.

He smiled.


	6. Screaming Hallelujah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shirt.”  
> Derek raised a brow. “What about it?”  
> “While you might be self-regenerating, the poly-cotton blend certainly isn’t.” Stiles narrowed his eyes, matching glare-for-glare with the wolf. “Now. Shirt. Off.”
> 
> Chapter title from [Hallelujah - Paramore](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

_The red eyes of the Alpha._  
_Running through empty school halls._  
_Claws jutting out of a broken chest._  
_Derek’s shocked face as blood spilled out of his mouth, those green-sea eyes glazing over -_

Stiles bolted upright, choking on a scream as he was shoved out of nightmares and into the shadows of his bedroom. Sweat was smeared along his brow, the nape of his neck; his chest heaved to reclaim oxygen. With a fluttery sigh, he pulled his legs up to his chest and rested his forehead to his knees. The images were less potent now, no longer clutching to him, but the details were as sharp as ever.

He tilted his head, looking at the alarm clock blinking 2:34 AM. Reaching a hand out, sleep-blurred fingers managed to grab his phone from the side table. He stared at the black screen before swiping it into life. A quick scroll through brought him to Derek’s name. Derek, who he wasn’t sure was alive or dead, who was the only one with the strength to even think of stopping the Alpha.

Who hadn’t contacted since they had gotten home from the high school.

Stiles hadn’t called him, had refused to, with his dad taking statements and the flash of police lights blinding his eyes. If Derek was alive, no doubt he had retreated to recover. Also, there was the complicated factor that Scott had accused him of mass murder and the police were scouring the town for him. If he wasn’t alive, Stiles wanted to put off knowing as long as possible, no matter how cowardly that made him.

But, what if Derek was alive and recovered only to end up in handcuffs again?

Cursing beneath his breath, Stiles ignored the panic skittering beneath his skin and pressed the call button.

Dial tone. Ring. Ring.

Stiles worried his thumb between his teeth, his eyes finally beginning to adjust to the shadows cast across the walls of his room.

Ring. Ring.

A bolt of pain shot up his hand where he bit down too hard.

Ring. Click.

“Stiles?”

Relief boiled up in his throat, making it hard to breathe around it. Manic, wrung-out laughter bubbled past his lips.

“Fuck almighty,” he gasped, burrowing his face in his knees. “Fuck, fuck, fuck - you’re alive. You’re fucking alive and - shit.”

“Stiles - “

“No, dude, not right now. Right now I am shaking like I’m tweaked out because all I could see was blood spilling out of your mouth and claws in your chest and I had no idea - no idea - whether you survived. Jesus Christ.”

Groaning, Stiles flopped backwards onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His pulse was finally beginning to slide downward, his brain still soaked in too much adrenaline.

“I - ” Derek’s voice was gritty, hollowed. “I didn’t know you were worried.”

Stiles didn’t bother stifling a sharp snort. “Seriously? I mean, yeah, I’m beyond pissed at you and irritated and annoyed and I’m not sure how to trust you, but that doesn’t mean I want you dead, dude.”

An uncomfortable pause lingered, Derek clearing his throat. “I didn’t think about it that way.”

“Obviously. Idiot.”

“I was preoccupied.”

Somehow, in the last thirty seconds, Stiles had forgotten that Derek was recovering from potentially life-threatening injuries. How could he forget that?

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked.

There was a shuffling sound followed by a stilted hiss. “I’ve been better,” Derek muttered. “But, I’m mostly whole.”

Stiles sighed, releasing tension with carbon dioxide. “Good,” he said. “That is good. Great, even. Spectacular. Freaking awesome - “

“I get it, Stiles.”

Laughter seized his gut, shuddering out of him, and his smile was shaky. “Do you need anything?”

“... What?” The question was gruff but the surprise wasn’t subtle.

“I mean,” Stiles continued, like he was talking to a particularly slow but still beloved child. “Do you need any help? Maybe bandages or antiseptic, I don’t really know, can werewolves get tetanus? Maybe some yummy edibles while you repair the giant holes in your chest?”

Stiles wasn’t entirely sure where he was going with this and knew the overwhelming likelihood of Derek snapping at him or hanging up on him. But, all he could see was Derek’s mouth bubbling over with liquid red and all he could hear was the sound of ripping flesh, sloppy and wet with the barest crunch of bone.

“Would you?”

The question startled Stiles back out of his head. “Would I what?”

“Help,” Derek replied, and if Stiles hadn’t known better he would have never heard the uncertainty. “I mean... Forget it. I can - ”

“Yes,” Stiles interrupted. “I’ll do it. Though if helping you requires the horrific removal of limbs, I may reconsider.”

There was an amused huff of breath. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Stiles grinned, shoving himself out of bed and setting his phone on the dresser after turning it on speaker.

“So, sourwolf,” he said, wriggling into a t-shirt and jeans. “What do you need, where do I deliver, and what’s my tip looking like? Fifteen, twenty percent?”

“Gauze. Peroxide. Tape. I’m at the abandoned warehouse at Vernon and Q Street. And, as for tip,” Derek deadpanned, “I will do my utmost to withhold violence.”

“Wow. When you put it like that, how can a guy refuse?”

Half an hour later, Stiles was pulling onto Q street, pulling over alongside the sidewalk and shifting the Jeep into park. As abandoned warehouses went, it looked pretty standard. Broken windows, poorly spelled graffiti. Stiles clambered out of the car, hefting the carryall bag over his shoulder and grabbing the bulging bag of fast food from the passenger seat. The chain on one of the side doors was broken, blood staining the metal links, and Stiles set his shoulders straight as he pushed inside.

The warehouse was dimly lit, the glow of the street lights smeared along the walls. He made his way through the debris, old machinery, trash, needles and spoons and - oh God - used condoms. His steps echoed on the concrete floor as he made his way forward before turning down a narrow corridor. There was a half-open door at the end of the hall with “Office” peeling on the glass. He pushed inside.

The room was dark, shadows cast from florescent street lamps, but Stiles could make out Derek’s hunched-over shoulders in the corner of the room. His leather jacket was tossed in the corner, stale with dried blood and torn apart in stripes up the back. His shirt had fared no better, torn where the Alpha had dug his claws in, rust-colored and sticky to half-healed wounds gaping beneath the fabric. Derek turned his head slightly, profile shadowed, and Stiles had no doubt that he had heard him coming up the street, before he had even walked in the door.

Derek made a scoffing noise. “Curly fries? Really?”

“Hell yeah, dude,” Stiles replied, walking closer. “But, we’ll deal with food after the hideous open wounds and, oh my God, that is a lot of blood.”

He swallowed bile back down and pointedly ignored Derek’s eye roll.

“You faint at the sight of blood?” Derek asked, and the scene set was just as tense as before but somehow as familiar as an inside joke. He had inside jokes with Derek Hale. Who would have thought?

“No, but I might if I see your spinal column.”

He hopped over to the crate where Derek was sitting, setting his bag on the ground and squatting down in front of him to unload supplies.

“So, I decided that gauze and peroxide were not going to cut it,” Stiles explained as he pulled handfuls of medical supplies. “Yes, I know, supernatural healing, but being a werewolf means being human more often than not and humans worry about things like gangrene and don’t you roll your eyes at me, Derek, I can hear it from here - ”

“You can hear it?”

Stiles nodded, reading the instructions on a roll of butterfly tape. “It has a particular ringing silence, similar to your glower - by the way your face is going to stick like that someday - but with a little more punch like your scowl - “

“You differentiate my facial expressions.”

“It’s not like there’s a whole gallery,” Stiles ranted on. “All you have to do is look - ”

He glanced up and his train of thought abruptly derailed. Derek was staring down at him with an expression Stiles had yet to see, much less categorize. It was soft and serious and Stiles was suddenly, sharply aware that he was kneeling on the floor in front of Derek, his knees on either side of his shoulders. He swallowed the flush of heat back down into the pit of his stomach.

“Anyway, I brought the works,” Stiles finished with a weak smile.

Derek nodded, wincing as he shifted his shoulders. Stiles immediately jumped to attention, refocusing on the situation at hand with Adderall-fueled clarity.

“Alright, let’s do this,” he said, arming himself with a clean washcloth over his shoulder and a bottle of peroxide. “Shirt.”

Derek raised a brow. “What about it?”

“While you might be self-regenerating, the poly-cotton blend certainly isn’t.” Stiles narrowed his eyes, matching glare-for-glare with the wolf. “Now. Shirt. Off.”

With a rude noise, Derek did as asked, tossing the blood-stained and dirt-smeared rag aside, revealing golden skin and muscles and _guh_. Biting his tongue to force his attention back under control, Stiles slipped around Derek’s back and felt his stomach ripple with acid. The wounds were worse here, having been where those lethal claws had pushed through, where a supernatural hand had threatened to follow into the chest cavity. They were trying to heal, jagged rips beginning to wink close, but they were deep into the muscle tissue, blood and fluid murky with grit.

“I’m gonna - “ Stiles choked out, refusing to gag. “I’m gonna rinse you out first before I get to the healing process.”

There was a grunt of what was probably approval. Stiles grabbed the giant bottle of water he’d pulled out of the bag, tossing away the cap. Gritting his teeth, he began pouring it down Derek’s back, watching the water sluice down the length of his torso, mingled with brown and red. He followed the water with the washcloth, the crust washing away to reveal pale-gold skin. He paid extra attention to the wounds, murmuring apologies when Derek had to bite back a hiss. When they ran clean and red, Stiles opened the peroxide and did the same, the foam bubbling down the curve of Derek’s spine. Already they looked better, the skin knitting back together faster than before. Stiles took a tube of Neosporin, gently spreading the gel along each of the wounds with gentle brushes of his fingertips, before patching them over with gauze and sealing them with medical tape. Satisfied with his work, he stepped back around to face Derek, who was sorting through the assortment of first aid supplies he had raided from the local pharmacy.

“I know it’s overkill, but I was a Boy Scout once. For, like, a month, but being prepared was the one thing that stuck,” Stiles explained.

Derek lifted his hand, a tin of tiger balm between his fingers. “Really?”

Stiles tossed his hands up. “Sore muscles, dude, I don’t know! I am not an expert on werewolf physiology.”

There was a familiar huff of noise and this was the first time Stiles had heard it in person.

“You totally laughed just now.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You’re a terrible, terrible liar, did you know that?”

Derek raised his brow, his look one that roughly translated to you’re such an idiot. Most of Derek’s expressions were variations of that phrase.

“Seriously,” Stiles pressed on, ignoring Derek’s eye roll. “You totally have a tell. I play a mean hand at poker - I know a bluff face when I see it.”

Derek snorted. “I can’t imagine you sitting still long enough to play a hand.”

“That’s why I end up winning.” Stiles dragged over a nearby crate, setting himself in front of Derek, though not before grabbing the bag of fast food. He handed Derek his extra-large roast beef sandwich (because, you know, werewolves aren’t exactly vegetarians) and grabbed his own thing of curly fries. “People expect me to get distracted, but I end up distracting them.”

Derek glared at his roast beef for a moment, before nearly swallowing the thing in one bite. Stiles was kind of horrified (but mostly impressed). Good thing he had bought two more just for this reason. “Texas Hold ‘em?”

“Is there any other kind?”

A grunt. “Any good?”

Stiles swallowed another fistful of fries before smirking. “I’m a sixteen-year-old without a job but manages the upkeep of a vintage Jeep. I’m very good.”

Derek gave him a doubtful look, though any severity was countered by the chipmunk cheeks he was sporting. Stiles refused to think it was adorable.

“I don’t know,” Derek countered. “You seem too... fidgety.”

An idea bubbled into his mind, the kind that Stiles would likely regret. That didn’t stop him from reaching into his back pocket to pull out a worn deck of cards.

He smiled sweetly. “Care to put a wager on that?”

Derek paused, staring at the deck, before swallowing his last bite. “Deal.”

The game started in companionable silence, both concentrating on the cards. Ever resourceful, Stiles had grabbed the jumbo bag of Skittles to use as chips. It took all of his effort not to eat his winnings, because blue raspberry Skittles are by far the superior Skittle. Of course, they were also worth the most.

“Call.” Stiles slid over a red and a purple, confident with the eight that just showed up on the turn. With two eights already in his hand, he felt pretty confident that the river would go his way.

Derek drummed his fingers on the egg crate before making the last flip. Jack of hearts. The community was looking solidly in Stiles’ favor.

Derek glowered at the spread before tapping his fingers twice.

Stiles smirked. “Flip ‘em.”

There went the flip and - 

“God dammit son of a bitch fucking shit fuck.”

The little quirk to Derek’s mouth as he swept in his winnings was as endearing as it was infuriating. “I thought you were good at this, Stiles.”

“Shut your whore mouth.”

Derek made another choked huffing noise, and Stiles considered it a win to wring yet another laugh from the taciturn werewolf.

“Well, you can call it quits now,” Derek began, “or you can lose even worse than you are now. It’s your call.”

Stiles rolled up his sleeves, leaning forward onto his knees. “Just deal.”

The next few hands were a test in patience, neither making any strides forward. They were running about even when Stiles glanced at his two cards to see the nine and king of spades. He tossed in the small blind before giving Derek his most blinding smile.

The river came up with the ten of spades, four of hearts, and queen of spades. Stiles swallowed his pulse to slowness, refusing to let Derek have the advantage of his heartbeat as a tell. He tossed in three blues and a red.

Derek drummed his fingers on his kneecap, utterly silent. He pushed forward the same.

“Call.”

Stiles nodded, watching as Derek flipped the turn. Eight of diamonds. He breathed in, then out. The place between his shoulder blades itched. “I raise,” he murmured, tossing in a handful of blues and yellows.

Derek took his time, glancing again at his pocket. “I raise,” he countered, adding another one fifty to the pot.

Stiles sucked in another breath. His pulse remained steady. “Call.”

Skittles amassing in the center, Derek flipped the river. Jack of spades.

Stiles breathed out. “Raise.”

The pile in the center was a mess of color. Derek folded his hand over his mouth before pushing in everything in front of him.

Stiles played out his hesitation, bounced his knees, bit his nails. Let his pulse skyrocket. “All in.”

He pushed his pot into the center. Derek looked up at him, smirking like an asshole. Stiles bit back a grin.

“Guess you’re not as good as you thought you were,” Derek said, flipping over his cards: Jack of hearts and eight of clubs.

Stiles swallowed. “Shit. That’s a pretty good hand, Derek.”

Derek shrugged, making a movement toward the pot when Stiles grabbed his wrist. His gaze flashed upwards, electric blue, and Stiles was brutally reminded that he held a werewolf’s wrist in his pathetically human fingers.

He smiled anyway. “This is a better hand.” He flipped over the cards, revealing the straight.

Derek glanced down. “Mother fucker.”

“So vulgar.”

“Shut your whore mouth.”

Stiles couldn’t help the tilt of his mouth. “So, you noticed?”

At Derek’s shocked expression, his face suddenly flush with pink, Stiles broke into laughter as he tossed a handful of Skittles into his mouth. “Oh, Sourwolf, you are just too easy to work up.”

It was better to let whatever that was sink into laughter than face what it could have become. Stiles simply wasn’t that brave. Or that stupid.

When Derek shrugged, wincing at the sudden snap of pain, Stiles was up on his feet in an instant. He shifted around to Derek’s back, taking in the nearly smooth expanse of skin. Some of the deeper wounds were an angry red, the wounds slitting together with the pink of new skin. Stiles brushed his fingers one of them, in awe of the flesh knitting itself before his eyes.

“How long does it usually take?” He asked.

Derek shifted his shoulders. “Depends on the severity. Basic cuts and lacerations can take seconds. Any wounds dealt by an Alpha takes much longer, nearly half a day. Anything with wolfsbane, unless the poison is drawn out, will never heal.”

Stiles nodded, thumb tracing the edge of the pinkened claw marks. “Do you scar?”

Those broad shoulders shuddered beneath his hands, Derek’s head hanging heavy. “No,” he murmured.

 _I must be crazy_ , Stiles thought, even as his fingers traced along the triskelion tattoo branded in the center’s of Derek’s back, _I must be utterly insane to be touching him like this like I have the right_.

His hand slid upward to the bare nape of Derek’s neck. When his thumb slipped against the pulse point there, the werewolf rumbled low and Stiles hand tightened in response. The heartbeat against his fingerprint was fluttering fast, as if running from something, and it didn’t take that much to know all the things that Derek was running from.

“I don’t think that’s better, actually,” he said, trying to ignore the fact that his hand was against a werewolf’s throat like that was somehow normal. “I think that some things are meant to scar. So you can look back and know you survived it.”

Another shuddering breath and Derek nodded again.

“You survived, Derek,” Stiles reminded him. “Even without the scars to prove it. You survived.”

Derek lifted his head, his pulse steady against Stiles’ fingers. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Unfortunately.”

Stiles snatched his hand back as if burnt. “Don’t say shit like that, dude,” he snapped. “Not after everything. Not after I spent hours waiting for the phone to ring to make sure you were still breathing. Just - just don’t, okay?”

Derek didn’t move, just sat there with his shoulders hunched and head lowered. “You should go.”

“I’m serious, Derek, don’t-”

“Please.”

Stiles’ words slammed to a stop. HIs shoulders sagged; fatigue weighed down on him like a bag of bricks. “Yeah, fine, whatever.”

He drove home in complete silence, his headlights spearing through the darkness as if it would light up what he couldn’t see. His dad was still on shift when he got home, so he didn’t bother keeping quiet as he slumped up the steps. Collapsing onto his bed, Stiles stared at the ceiling, just as blank as the look on Derek’s face.

He closed his eyes.

* * * * *

Stiles wished he could say his luck was looking up. Sadly, as this day was forcefully reminding him, that wasn’t the case. Scott was seriously going of the deep end and it was up to him to make sure he didn’t violently murder anyone. Or make out with the one true love of his long-suffering best friend.

“Stiles!” Scott yelled through the door. “Let me out!”

Stiles leaned his head back against the wood, closing his eyes. “No can do, buddy. This is for your own good.”

There was a heated growl, the clattering of metal cuffs against the radiator pipe. “This isn’t fair, Stiles. I’m just fine.”

“If fine you mean inches from a murderous rage, then yeah, you’re totally fine.”

Scott devolved into more yowling and snarling, thus proving Stiles’ point. Panic crawled up his arms, clanging at his ribs, but he swallowed it down. He would not let Scott hurt himself or anyone else. He owed him that much.

It was only when the room went dead quiet that Stiles’ heart rate shot up into his throat.

“Scott?”

He opened the door, staring at the broken handcuffs - the bloody radiator - the open window.

“Shit.”

He bolted out of the room, skidding down the hall before nearly tumbling down the stairs. There was only one thing to do - only one thing he could do. He was only human, made of fragile tissue-paper skin and porcelain bones, and Scott was ravenous to break anything apart. Even his best friend. Refusing to let his lungs clog up with panic, Stiles grabbed his phone and made the call.

RIng. Ring. “This really isn’t the best time, Stiles-”

“It’s Scott,” Stiles interrupted. “It’s the full moon and he was being such a dick today and kissed Lydia and I chained him up to the radiator but he broke out and my dad’s out there, Derek, my dad, and I don’t know what to do-”

“Stiles.” Derek’s voice was like a bullet, piercing through the noise of his rising panic attack. “Calm down.”

He sucked in a breath, let it filter through. “Okay. Okay, I’m calm.”

“Good. Now, where do you think Scott went?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “To find Allison, probably. That’s really the only thing he thinks about as a wolf, in between the kill kill RAGE kill parts.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“How should I know? I’m not a werewolf creeper like you guys. I don’t stalk my potential love interests.”

“That’s not what we - whatever. Not the point.”

“Is there a point?”

“I’ll find him, Stiles,” Derek promised. “I will find him and it will be okay. Okay?”

Stiles nodded, hanging his head. “Yeah. Okay.”

Derek hung up and Stiles slumped against the wall, sliding to the floor to rest his forehead on his knees. He clung to that promise in between each breath he took. “Okay.”

He allowed himself a minute to breathe in the musty scent of denim. His head cleared and Stiles wasted no time running out the door. The Jeep’s headlights flooded the darkened roads as he cruised around town, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. He didn’t know where to look, didn’t know if there was anything he could actually do, but there was nothing worse than waiting for bad news. Stiles had done that for eight months holding his mother’s hand. He refused to do the same for his dad.

The flashing police lights broke through the darkness; Stiles slammed on the brakes. He saw the mass of police milling about, taking notes and filling out chain of custody forms. His dad wasn’t there.

“Dad!” he shouted, scrambling out of the Jeep. There was no response. He ignored the odd looks he was getting, letting them wash over him like water. He saw the stretcher with the white sheet laid over it and faltered. A burn-crusted hand was hanging to the side; it smelled like overcooked meat.

“Stiles?”

He whipped around to see his dad, staring at him in confused affection. Suckerpunched in the chest, Stiles grabbed him in a tight hug. He felt the old bones creaking under his hands, smelled Old Spice and gun oil, and the rapid train of his anxiety slowed to a grinding halt.

When he pulled back, his dad was still confused. “Can I ask what that was about?”

Stiles shuffled his feet. “Uhh, nothing. Just adrenaline, you know?”

“Uh huh.” His dad seemed unconvinced.

“I just mean, I heard about extra-crispy over here,” Stiles flailed in that direction, “and I kinda freaked out.”

“Were you listening to the police scanner again? Because we’ve talked about that, Stiles.”

“I know, I know. I just-” he licked his lips, head scrubbing the back of his head. “I just got worried.”

His dad’s shoulders slumped a little at that. “Yeah, I know.” He squeezed Stiles’ shoulder. “I know you get worried. But, I’m okay. Alright?”

Stiles nodded, looking out into the forest. He almost could imagine hearing a wolf’s howl, the movement of shadows in between the trees. “Yeah, alright.”

He drove in silence, the knotted ball of worry in his gut sitting heavy. His phone had remained silent too and it took every ounce of control not to call Derek right now. He didn’t want to know the bad news yet, if there was bad news, horribly blood-soaked news. And if Scott was with Derek, Stiles wasn’t quite ready to field questions as to how he had gotten so chummy with the resident Sourwolf to have his number. It was not a conversation that would go well, he was sure of it. It didn’t make the worrying any less painful.

He pulled up to the McCall’s house, turning his Jeep off. He wasn’t sure if going inside was a great idea. But, sitting outside in his Jeep with nothing but his ADHD to keep him company sounded like a recipe for disaster. When he caught movement in the window of Scott’s room, his decision was made.

Stiles could totally be sneaky when he wanted to be; no one gave him nearly enough credit. He twisted the knob so the door shut on a whisper, avoiding the memorized places on the floor that made the worst creaking sounds. He clung to the side of the staircase, just reaching the second floor when he heard the first words of conversation leaking out from Scott’s open door.

“Is there a cure?”

Stiles and Scott waited on bated breath.

“For someone who is bitten?” Derek finally replied. “I’ve heard of one. I don’t know if it’s true.”

“Well, what is it?” Scott demanded.

“You have to kill the one that bit you.”

Stiles drew in a shuddering breath, trying to keep silent, trying to keep his heart rate steady. Kill the Alpha? There was absolutely no way that was possible. The Alpha was too strong, too fast, too vicious for Scott to take down. But, Scott would try, of course he would try, because Scott had hung his devotion on one Allison Argent. This could only end in blood and tears.

“Scott,” Derek pressed forward. “If you help me find him, I’ll help you kill him.”

And fire. They all would burn.

Skin flushed hot with rage, Stiles slipped back down the stairs to wait. It wasn’t long before Derek found him, lingering in the darkness of Scott’s living room. He just stopped in the hall and Stiles knew that Derek had known he was here the whole time. It made his fists clench.

“You lied,” he whispered. Derek turned toward him, face half-masked in shadow. “You lied to Scott.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did,” Stiles argued. “I know what your lies sound like. They’re wrapped up in half-truths and hopes and I know you lied.”

Derek took a step closer. Stopped. “I don’t know if it’s true.”

“You know enough to know the odds. It’s probably some sort of werewolf urban legend, told to scare the cubs at slumber parties,” Stiles scoffed. “Sure, you can’t prove it’s not true, but that doesn’t make the Bogeyman anymore real.”

“Werewolves are real.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

Derek didn’t bother to refute that. “I need help, Stiles,” he admitted under his breath. “I need help taking down the Alpha. If this is the only way I can get Scott’s help, then so be it.”

“Real Machiavellian of you,” Stiles snarked. He pushed forward, standing just in front of Derek so the werewolf was forced to look him in the eye. “So, the ends justify the means then? You know what will happen when Scott finds out you lied? He will never trust you again. Scott’s like that. He never forgets, like a goddamn elephant.”

“It’s the only way,” Derek argued, gnashing his teeth in frustration. “Scott will understand.”

There was so much delusion beneath all that leather and rage. “No, Scott will definitely not understand. Scott is a Hufflepuff, Derek. He does loyalty and honesty and never-ending grudges against those who betray him. I’m his best friend, remember? I know the guy a hell of a lot better than you.”

Derek glared at him, nostrils flaring. “And, how would he feel if he found out you were lying to him?”

“I’m not _lying to Scott_ , talk about projection-”

“So, he knows about me?”

Stiles found his words trailing off. Because Derek was right and it made him shake with anger. “No, he doesn’t,” he bit out, catching Derek’s gaze like molten iron. “Because this is mine. Not Scott’s epic romance or awesomely cool superhero status. This is _mine_ and no one else’s. Got it?”

Derek said nothing for a moment before nodding slightly. “Got it.”

They walked outside together, Derek giving him nothing more than a glance before melting into the shadows. Stiles crawled into his Jeep, listening to the sounds of the world still sleeping. He looked up at Scott’s window, then the spot of darkness where Derek had disappeared. It felt like a choice.

Stiles turned the key in the ignition, driving off into the darkness, lies still stitching his mouth shut.


	7. Cold (But I'm Still Here)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having Derek in his room for the first time was slightly surreal. Not that he had taken much time to imagine this scenario, but it certainly didn’t involve harboring a fugitive from the law and Derek so desperate to ignore him that he was reading the actual dictionary.
> 
> Chapter title: [Evans Blue - Cold](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

Having Derek in his room for the first time was slightly surreal. Not that he had taken much time to imagine this scenario, but it certainly didn’t involve harboring a fugitive from the law and Derek so desperate to ignore him that he was reading the actual dictionary.

“So, what’s the deal with the Argents?” Stiles asked, spinning around on his desk chair. “Are they usually this trigger happy or is it just you?”

Derek glared at him before returning to the B’s. Stiles rolled his eyes. Seriously, this guy was giving him emotional whiplash.

“Do werewolves get PMS?”

“... What?”

“No, I mean it,” Stiles continued. “It kind of fits. Menstrual cycles are considered tied to the lunar phases, and we all know that’s sort of the werewolf gig. Which would explain the hyper emotionality and massive mood swings. Any other symptoms I should know about? Cramps? Bloating? Inability to keep from crying at ASPCA commercials?”

Derek glowered at him. “You should stop talking.”

“Geez, what crawled up your ass and died today?”

“I don’t know, Stiles, maybe it’s because you and your friend Scott effectively made me the most wanted fugitive in the state.”

“That was mostly Scott and, just so you know, I thought it was a terrible idea,” Stiles explained. It didn’t seem to work, as Derek just breathed aggressively (he didn’t know how that was possible) and turned back to the dictionary. Stiles sighed. “Dude, for the record? I’m sorry. Like, actually sorry. You can smell that, right? The honesty just pouring off me in sweetly-scented waves?”

Derek turned a page. “Mostly I smell stale Doritos and desperation. You should think about changing your sheets.”

It took Stiles a moment for that to sink in before blood flushed his cheeks. “Oh my God.” He scrambled to his feet, flinging his comforter onto the floor and tearing the sheets off his bed. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God - you can _smell_ that? - oh my God.”

Stiles didn’t wait for an answer, just barrelled out of the room with a pile of bedding and downstairs to the laundry room. For safety’s sake, he added an extra Tide pod (mountain spring) to the load. He grabbed a clean set of sheets (luckily, they had only a mildly embarrassing floral print) and re-entered his room to Derek still stoically being an asshole. 

“I hate you,” Stiles declared as he remade his bed. “You are the literal worst.” 

Derek shrugged. “You’re sixteen. It’s natural. Even if it’s excessive.” 

“Oh my God, could we please not discuss my masturbatory habits?” 

“Anyways, I had it worse,” Derek admitted, flipping another page. “I lived in a family of werewolves. Privacy did not exist at my house.” 

It wasn’t a moment before images flooded into Stiles’ mind of an angst-ridden, teenage Derek at a kitchen table, his family giving each other knowing looks. He finished tucking in the corners of the comforter before slumping down onto his bed. “They could actually hear you?” He thought it was bad enough when his dad had just given him the sex talk, all uncomfortable silences and a box of condoms, but at least his dad couldn’t hear his - well - more private pursuits. “That is profoundly disturbing.” 

“Not much of a choice.” 

“I would die of shame and blue balls.” 

“No, you wouldn’t.” 

“Yeah, probably not,” Stiles admitted. “There would be shame though. Heaps and heaps of ugly blushing and averted gazes.” 

“We can hear that too.” 

“What, shame?” 

Derek shook his head, finally looking up from where he was still pretending to read. “Blushing.” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Really?” 

“The blood rushing upwards? Filling up the veins? Yeah, we can hear that.” 

Somehow, knowing that Derek could hear the blood in his veins, the quiet rush of it beneath his skin, felt unbearably intimate. His cheeks heated, the rosy flush spreading across his cheekbones and up along the tips of his ears, and the way Derek cocked his head- 

The doorbell rang and Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin and onto the floor. When his heart rate had recovered, Stiles saw that Derek had retreated into the dictionary again, seemingly as closed off as ever. Sighing, he made his way downstairs to let Danny in. At least one of them was going to be productive today. 

“Is that blood?” 

Even if it involved an impromptu striptease to do so. 

Danny’s eyes swept up and down that pale-gold torso before glaring at Stiles, his fingers typing away like they had a mind of their own.. “You’re a terrible human being, you know that?” 

Stiles shrugged. “Whatever keeps you hacking.” 

“No one calls it hacking anymore.” 

“Really?” Stiles frowned. “That’s a shame. How are you going to manage a movie-worthy heist?” 

Danny rolled his eyes again, concentrating on the computer screen. Stiles dared to glance behind him, where Derek had found a gray t-shirt and was sulking in the corner. If Stiles were a braver man, he’d call it pouting. As it was, he liked keeping his appendages firmly attached. Not that he truly thought Derek would harm him (despite the constant looming and menacing) but the man still had sharper teeth than most. 

“Alright guys, gather around,” Danny summoned. Stiles slid his chair forward; he heard Derek move from across the room to hover over his shoulder. He was so close that he felt when his body went utterly still when they discovered exactly where the text from. 

“Stiles-” 

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles grumbled, playing over the anxiety with a scowl. “Field trip.” 

Danny gave them a look before shrugging it off, looking entirely done. “I guess the lab report is not happening.” 

Stiles at least felt somewhat sheepish at that. “Danny, the thing is-” 

“Whatever, no worries,” Danny cut him off. He gave a pointed look at Derek shrugging into his leather jacket before stepping closer to Stiles. “Just... uhh, use protection, alright?” 

He nearly swallowed his tongue at that. “That’s not - Danny, I think you misunderstood-” 

Danny waved him off. “Well, that’s my public service announcement for the day. I’m heading out. I’ll see you at the game tonight. Congrats on first line by the way.” 

Stiles felt his throat bob. He had almost forgotten about that. Supernatural shenanigans had almost completely consumed his focus since the day Scott had lost his inhaler. When Coach Finstock had said his name (mispronounced it, but still), Stiles had felt like a teenager again, all excitement and barely constrained enthusiasm and the fact that the most important thing in the world was making first line of the lacrosse team. Now, it seemed pale next to the knowledge that there was a psychotic Alpha werewolf still hell-bent on a murderous rampage and somehow Mrs. McCall was involved in said rampage. Most things paled in light of that. 

“Yeah. Thanks, I guess.” 

Danny tossed a look over his shoulder. “Nice meeting you, Miguel.” 

Derek merely scowled in response, brushing past the two of them to head down the stairs. Stiles was at least a gracious enough host to wave Danny out before hopping into his Jeep where Derek was already waiting (which probably only made Danny’s false assumption seem even more horribly plausible). The car slipped into gear and they turned out of the neighborhood. 

“You made first line.” Derek’s questions had a tendency to not actually sound like questions. 

His hands gripped the wheel painfully tight before relaxing again. “Yeah, I did.” 

“Congratulations.” Stiles glanced at Derek, who was facing the darkened road ahead of him. “I know it meant a lot to you.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles mumbled. “It did. Thanks.” 

“... You don’t seem very excited,” Derek pointed out. 

“I just-” Stiles huffed out a breath. “It really doesn’t matter, does it? There are more important things right now. Mostly not letting anymore people die. I mean, priorities.” 

“Scott didn’t seem to mind.” 

“I’m not Scott,” Stiles snapped. “But, for your information, Scott cares. He cares a lot. The guy is like goddamn Captain America and Hufflepuff House all rolled into one goofy package. He just forgets to look around sometimes. It’s the floppy hair - gets in his eyes.” 

“Or it’s Allison Argent.” Derek’s voice was subsonic and soaked in vitriol. 

Stiles didn’t really know what to say to that, mostly because Derek sort of had a point. But, it wasn’t Allison’s fault that her family were crazy with a side order of homicidal rage. “This is also not her fault,” Stiles reminded him. “She isn’t pulling any triggers. Allison practically has wildlife eating out of her hands every time she smiles. I mean, seriously, the dimples alone.” 

Derek made grumbling noises, which roughly translated to agreement. Well, Stiles would take it as agreement. 

“Anyways,” he continued, “do we have any sort of plan? Because Scott’s mom is awesome and will probably brain you with a baseball bat.” 

“We’ll scout it out,” Derek answered. “No need to stick our necks out quite yet. But,” he gave Stiles a fierce look “if the Alpha shows up, you run. No stupid ideas that will get you killed. Okay?” 

Stiles made a face. “Not exactly something I’m gonna disagree with. I really enjoy the not-being-killed that I get to experience on a daily basis.” 

“Let’s try and keep it that way.” 

“Let’s.” 

The conversation with Scott left Stiles even more fidgety than usual. Not only did the amulet provide them with no answers at all, the probability of him ever being on first line ever again was utterly demolished. And, having Scott talk to his dad, knowing that he was probably not going to show up until after the game was over and his dad would be drowning in disappointment... 

Yeah, his life sucked. 

“You’re not going to make it,” Derek so helpfully pointed out. 

“Yeah,” Stiles admitted. “I know.” 

“And, you didn’t tell him about his mom either.” 

Stiles resisted making a face. “Not until we know the truth.” 

He looked at the hospital, trying not to squirm in his seat. He hoped beyond all hope that Scott’s mom wasn’t in any way involved in all this. He loved Mrs. McCall like his own family (not like a second mom, he didn’t need another mom), and would gladly walk across hot coals or something equally stupid and painful to prove it. The other option, that the Alpha as a particularly tech-savvy rabid beast, was not a comforting alternative. 

“Oh, and one more thing.” 

That was all the warning Derek gave him before slamming his face into the steering wheel. 

“What the hell!?” 

Derek had a finger pointed right in his face and Stiles wanted to bite it off. “You know what that was for,” Derek scowled. 

Which was true and everything but now his entire _face_ hurt and how was that productive? 

“Go,” Derek demanded, like the asshole he was. “GO.” 

Stiles resisted the urge to slam the door (his baby didn’t deserve such treatment) before shuffling across the lot to the hospital. Shivers skittered down his spine as the doors opened for him, revealing abandoned, half-lit hallways. He could barely stand the hospital in the daylight, when the stench of bleach and the hustle of doctors and patients had panic fluttering just beneath the surface. At night, the place seemed like a ghost town, filled with the shadows of the living. It gave him a very bad feeling. 

He circled through the ward for the second time and, when he still couldn’t find anyone, much less Ms. McCall, Stiles found himself reaching for his phone. 

“What?” Derek answered. 

“She’s not here,” Stiles informed him as his feet made his way into the long-term care unit. 

“What do you mean, she’s not there?" 

“I said, I can’t find her,” Stiles repeated, refusing to scratch at the hairs still standing on end at the nape of his neck. 

“Ask for Jennifer. She’s the one looking after my uncle.” 

It was only when he turned into Peter Hale’s room, finding the bed and wheelchair empty, that his stomach sank even lower. “Well, he’s not here either.” 

“What?” 

Seriously, he was super creeped out and Derek was incapable of basic listening skills. “He’s not here, Derek,” Stiles huffed, trying to keep his frustration under control. The silence was suddenly too long, too heavy with realization, and Stiles knew what was wrong even before Derek said anything. 

“Stiles! Get out of there right now! It’s him; he’s the Alpha! Get out!” 

He only had the chance to take one step back before he was confronted with Peter Hale, the scars on his face twisting at the corner of his mouth. 

“You must be Stiles.” 

***** 

Stiles’ phone rang, blasting him out of his sleep like a gunshot. He was actually very familiar with gunshots (his dad was the Sheriff and Stiles had spent more than one afternoon at the shooting range with a Browning in his hands). That being said, they had never sounded like Florence + the Machine’s “Howl.” 

His eyes snapped open as he jerked forward, shoved roughly into wakefulness. He had programmed that ringtone in his phone weeks ago for one person. He tried not to think why he insisted on “Who Let the Dogs Out?” for Scott but he couldn’t quite make himself do the same for the grouchy sourwolf (what that said about his psyche he refused to analyze). He hadn’t heard from Derek since their own version of Night of the Living Dead two days ago, when Derek had crawled across broken glass just to lead Peter away from him. Dear old Uncle Peter, psycho Alpha wolf with his grudge burned upon his face. Stiles hadn’t heard from Derek since, the silence driving him near insane. 

He scrambled to accept the call. “Derek?” 

There was no response but Stiles could hear him breathing softly in the background. 

“Derek, what’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it Peter?” 

Still no answer. He shuffled upright in bed, scrubbing his hand through his shorn hair.”Seriously, Derek,” he hissed, “I had no idea what was happening, no idea if you were even alive, you can’t just-” 

“It’s her birthday.” 

Stiles stopped short, embarrassed warmth rushing across his cheeks. All that tension instantly unraveled as he leaned back against the headboard. 

“Who?” He asked. 

A wet, heavy swallow. “Laura,” Derek said, voice trembling. “She would have been twenty-four today.” 

Stiles tried not to close his eyes, knowing that in the dark was the image of Laura Hale, covered in dirt and film-glazed eyes staring up at him. It would be nearly too much to bear. Besides, this wasn’t about him. 

“What was she like?” Stiles asked, genuine curiosity intermixed with gentle concern. 

“She was - ” Derek hesitated, still unsure of his words as if this were their first conversation, though they both knew it very much wasn’t. “She was a natural leader,” he said finally, voice a little stronger, a little more certain. “She was gonna be Alpha after my mom, and no one questioned it. She took to it naturally as breathing. I would have been happy being her Beta for the rest of my life.” 

The wistfulness there was like a fist in the gut, twisting without remorse. Stiles endured, didn’t resist, just listened. 

“She was fast too,” Derek continued as if unable to stop. “So much faster than I ever was. We’d play catch-and-chase for hours in the woods until we could barely breathe. She always let me catch her in the end, and I always knew she did.” 

There was a wet, broken sound, almost like laughter, and Stiles bit his lip. 

“She had shit taste in music though.” Derek was breathy, absolutely wrecked. “It was always goddamn boy bands. Hanson and Backstreet Boys and fucking One Direction. God, I teased her about it. She gave back as good as she got though. She always kept me in line.” 

“Derek,” Stiles whispered, wanting to say something but knowing nothing helps. “I - ” 

“I miss her.” 

His voice was so small, so shattered, that Stiles jammed his hand against his mouth, fingers biting into his cheekbone. The pain kept the burning in his throat at bay, kept his cheeks dry. He sucked in a breath through his fingers, slamming his eyes shut. He would not cry, would not break, not when Derek needed this, needed him. 

There was a sharp noise at his window and, when Stiles opened his eyes, Derek was there, standing in the middle of his room and staring at the floor. Swallowing the rush of relief that the wolf was seemingly healthy and whole, Stiles set the phone to the side, keeping his eyes on those trembling shoulders, the hands clenched in fists. There was a soft, spattering sound and Stiles watched blood slowly fall to the floor where Derek’s claws were buried in his palms. 

He could barely breathe, pulse throbbing in his temple and he knew Derek could hear it. Stiles watched his hands unfurl, saw the now-human fingernails crusted in blood, the wounds already beginning to heal. Not that they were the wounds that mattered. 

Inhale. Exhale. “Derek...” 

It was as if the man were held up by strings that were brutally sheared, the weight of him collapsing to his knees. Stiles didn’t blink, didn’t think, just moved until he was kneeling in front of Derek and was gathering him in his arms, pressing his face against his throat. Another time, maybe he would have hesitated to cradle an emotionally unstable werewolf against the most vulnerable part of him. Another time, maybe he would worry if this was some sort of supernatural invitation to be devoured. But, at this moment, all he could hear was Derek’s choked breathing, the warmth of it smearing across his collarbone, the shuddering shoulders against his chest. Derek smelled like forest and leather and despair and it made Stiles clutch at the jacket beneath his hands. 

Stubble scraped against his jugular but there were no tears wetting his skin and Stiles wasn’t sure which was worse. 

“Shh,” he whispered, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. “Shh, I got you. You’re okay. I got you.” 

Derek growled, but it was in jagged pieces. “I’m not okay. Nothing is okay.” 

“You’re right,” Stiles agreed. “But, it will be.” 

There was a shuddering breath before Derek pulled away, staring at his bloodstained hands on his knees. “No,” he murmured. “I don’t think that’s true.” 

Stiles thought about reaching out, but the situation was beginning to sink in, and touching Derek suddenly seemed an insurmountable task. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. “We know who the Alpha is; now it’s just a matter of stopping him.” 

Derek made a choked sound; it was laughter. “I don’t think I can.” 

“Of course, you can,” Stiles affirmed. “You’re Derek Hale, resident werewolf. This town isn’t big enough for the two of you.” 

He finally lifted his head, giving Stiles a tired glare. “This isn’t the Wild West.” 

“We got ourselves a Sheriff and enough shootouts to make our own John Wayne movie. I think it qualifies.” 

It wasn’t all that funny, but the small quirk to Derek’s mouth felt like a victory anyway, even after it faded. “It doesn’t matter,” Derek held, climbing to his feet, forcing Stiles to do the same because he certainly wasn’t going to stay kneeling on the floor in front of him. “I can’t - I don’t have a choice. It’s Peter and... I can’t.” 

Dread curdled in the pit of his stomach and Stiles narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded. He remembered what Scott had said, about Peter and Derek in the guys’ locker room, and had scoffed at the time, sure it was Derek’s way of undermining his uncle. But, the way Derek answered in silence made his jaw tighten. “Derek, you can’t possibly be serious. He killed your sister!” 

“He said it was an accident.” 

“That’s such bullshit!” Stiles hissed, wanting to scream but still aware of his father sleeping at the end of the hall. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” 

Derek snarled at him, but it felt half-hearted, without heat. “These things happen.” 

“Oh my God, no, these things very much do not happen-” 

“He’s family.” 

Stiles’ anger-fueled words tangled up on his tongue. Derek wasn’t looking at him, but it felt like he had his whole attention. He tried not to shiver, mostly failed. 

Derek finally looked at him and it made him want to run. “He’s family,” he whispered, grief-soaked. “He’s the only family I have left. If I don’t have him, I don’t... I can’t.” 

Closing his eyes, Stiles sucked in a needed breath, let his temper soak back into his bones before staring Derek down once again. “I get it,” he replied. “Really, I do. But, family doesn’t kill each other. Family doesn’t hurt you like that.” 

Derek said nothing and it was answer enough. “I have to go,” he finally said, and he was out the window and gone like he had never even been there. Stiles sank down onto his bed, fingers shaking with excess energy but so tired he could barely see straight. He slid into bed and closed his eyes, happy to pretend that everything would be okay for a little while longer. Even after rescuing Scott’s mom from the date from hell, it seemed possible that everything would (almost) sort itself out. 

It didn’t take long for that bubble to burst. 

“What do you mean, Derek’s missing?” 

“I mean,” Scott continued, “that Derek is freaking missing. He was all about chomping up Jackson and I went to stop him and there were hunters-” 

“Hunters?” Stiles sat up, spine ramrod straight. “What hunters?” 

“-and I got shot which is when Derek finally got up-” 

“You got shot!?” 

“-and he pushed me to the back of the house so I could run,” Scott finished in a rush. 

Stiles scratched his hands through his hair; he would be pulling at it if it were any longer. “And? Then what happened?” 

Scott’s brows lowered, wrinkling with focus. “I stumbled out of the back of the house and was left trying not to die in the middle of the woods. Next thing I knew I was in Deaton’s clinic and he was patching me up.” 

His head spinning, Stiles straddled the desk chair, his knees feeling too wobbly to stand. So, not only was the local veterinarian involved, he seemed to be on their side. That was good to know, considering they had been very close to murdering him not too long ago. As it was, panic was still clogging his veins and he was trying his best not to jump out of his skin. 

“Okay, this is good news,” Stiles squeaked out, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “It’s not like we could have used his help before the shit hit the fan, but still good nonetheless. But, what about Derek?” 

Scott’s mouth twisted. “What about him?” 

“I mean,” Stiles bit out, “what happened to Derek?” 

“He pushed me away,” Scott answered, his eyes elsewhere, “and then he opened the front door and charged at the hunters. That’s the last I saw him before I got away.” 

Something hard hit the center of his chest, knocking the breath out of him. “And, now he’s missing.” 

Scott nodded. 

“Okay,” Stiles murmured. He took in a sharp breath, letting it sink into his stomach. He could do this. He had taken care of his dad, put away the whiskey, figured out how to do the goddamn laundry at eleven years old. He had remembered his medication and held Scott’s hand when his family had splintered apart. He had been ignored by Lydia Martin since the third grade, surviving on just scraps of her laughter and the L’oreal bounce of her hair. He had only met Derek in June, and even then it was just a voice on the end of the line. It wasn’t _real_. 

Stiles swallowed it down, so far down, until he felt nothing at all. “We’ll figure this out, Scott,” he smirked, smile wide and tight at the corners. “Don’t you worry.” 

Scott seemed to brighten at that. “Thanks, dude.” 

“Of course.” 

“Oh, did I mention that Peter Hale threatened me?” 

“... Wait, what?” 

“Yeah. Have you seen my phone?” 


	8. With Eyes Closed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles felt the hollows of his chest echo at the thought, like a whispered prayer in an empty church. His fingers twisted in the balloon string again and he focused on the smell of bleach. The hospital slowly came to life around him as he stared at the door across the hall where a beautiful girl still slept.
> 
> Chapter title:[Strawberry Fields Forever - Tomorrow](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

It was over.

The stench of bleach hummed beneath the surface of his thoughts, the backbreaking cushions of the waiting room chair barely registering. Stiles’ fingers twisted in the plastic ribbon of the “Get Well” balloon, a mindless compulsion. The hospital was practically abandoned this time of night, the few nurses paying no attention to him after it was clear that he wasn’t leaving. And he wasn’t. Not until Lydia woke up.

Sleep pulled at him but he refused to close his eyes. There were too many images in the dark, waiting like sharks in the water. The blood-stained mouth of Peter Hale, a clawed hand hovering over Lydia’s still form. His dad’s face when confronted about the attack, the heavy lines of disappointment creasing the corners of his eyes. The way the flames licked up the hideous form of the Alpha, the stench of cooking meat scraping the back of his throat. Even now he could smell it, beneath the soap scent of his shower, where he had scrubbed for thirty minutes before giving up.

Stiles untied the knots in the balloon string, letting it pop back upwards. If he glanced down the hall, he could see the shadowed alcove where Chris Argent had confronted him. That stern face shattered in rage and grief for just a split second, fists twisted in the fabric of his dress shirt. He had been scared, just for a moment, though it was just a blip along his nerves. Peter Hale had pretty much exhausted them of any terror he could manage. It was only when Chris had the gall to talk about innocence, to talk about _judgment_ , that he had snapped. He had thrown the Hale house in his face, the ashes of that tragedy burning hot in his words. It was only then he had realized that Chris hadn’t known - or had not wanted to know.

It didn’t matter. Blood was on all of their hands now. 

Driving up to the Hale house with Jackson, Stiles hadn’t known what to expect, running hot on adrenaline and fear. The hulking form of the Alpha seemed to be drawn of nightmares, the devil rising from Bald Mountain. Scott and Derek were no match against such a beast, and the sight of Derek, barely-held together in bruises and blood, had bile gurgling in the pit of his stomach. Even watching Peter Hale drown in flames, the fire he had barely escaped from six years ago finally catching up to him, the worst was seeing Derek kneeling over his uncle, charred and sneering. The final swipe of claws ripping through flesh and muscle was like a gunshot, even above Scott’s pleas. And those eyes, once brilliant blue, were now soaked with the blood of the Alpha before him. 

Stiles felt the hollows of his chest echo at the thought, like a whispered prayer in an empty church. His fingers twisted in the balloon string again and he focused on the smell of bleach. The hospital slowly came to life around him as he stared at the door across the hall where a beautiful girl still slept. He let the balloon bounce back up. 

“Hey, Stiles.” 

He managed to raise his head, giving a start. “Monica? What are you doing here?” 

The girl slumped next to him, hugging her messenger bag to her chest. “I’m checking in on you,” she said, staring at the door. “I heard about what happened. The attack on Lydia and everything.” 

It took him a moment to remember what she was talking about before nodding. “Yeah,” he murmured. “And everything.” 

“Are you okay?” 

He gave her a sideways glance. “I’m not the one in the medically induced coma.” 

“No,” she agreed. “But, you’re the one who helps everyone else while suffering in silence.” 

Stiles had nothing to say to that. He looked back at the door. “I’m fine.” 

“Does Scott even know you’re here?” 

“Scott has his own stuff to worry about.” 

Monica huffed. “His relationship woes with Allison really aren’t of the same magnitude.” 

Stiles knew differently, but he certainly wasn’t going to tell Monica about it. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“Look,” she allowed, her voice quiet again, “do you have someone you can talk to? Obviously I’m happy to be that person as well but you need all the support you can get.” 

There was one person he could call. He just wasn’t so sure he wanted to. “I had someone,” he admitted. “Not anymore though.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“He’s just - he’s just not an option. He was but now he isn’t and I don’t think he will be again.” 

“That really hurts you, being cut off from someone you care about.” 

“... Yeah,” he murmured. “Even if he was an ass.” 

“What have you considered to resolve the situation?” 

“I don’t know if anything - wait. You’re hotlining me right now.” 

Monica laughed. “Guilty,” she said, though her eyes were still serious. “But, that’s what I do. I listen.” 

Stiles scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t think Derek will listen.” 

He expected an immediate quip to the contrary, but after a few moments passed with nothing, Stiles finally turned his head. Monica was staring straight ahead, her shoulders rigid, mouth drawn tight in a line. 

“Umm... are you-” 

“Is that his real name?” 

“Whose name?” 

Monica snapped towards him, eyes narrowed. “The guy from the hotline. You said David before. But, that’s Derek, isn’t it?” 

His throat constricted; his knuckles went white against the armrests. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he monotoned. 

“You idiot,” she hissed. “I knew something was up when that number never showed up again. But, I hoped you weren’t quite this stupid.” 

“Monica-” 

“Shut up.” 

Stiles’ jaw clacked shut. 

“Now, you listen,” Monica began, one finger threatening against his chest. “What’s done is done and you’re lucky I like you. Considering everything, I’m not gonna keep you from someone who obviously is part of your support system. But, you keep yourself clean. I mean it. When it looks like danger’s ahead, you bail.” 

“What about Derek?” Stiles snapped back. “Dude doesn’t have anybody, okay? His whole family’s dead and he blames himself and he’s the most broken person I’ve ever met and I can’t just abandon him, Monica, _I can’t_.” 

There was a blur of movement and a bolt of almost-pain ran up his arm. Stiles looked down at where Monica’s had grabbed his elbow, her thumb pressing into the crease and three white lines. 

“Just because he’s broken doesn’t mean he gets to break you,” she whispered. “You’ve suffered enough, Stiles. Don’t keep silent this time.” 

With that, she released him, walking out of the waiting room without another word. Stiles sat there, the “Get Well” balloon bobbing over his head, his arm throbbing where she had pressed in against his skin (his secrets). Sucking in a rattling breath, he stood up, positioning himself over the arms of the row of chairs. They dug into his back, his legs, but it helped his mind focus. He barely even thought of Derek before he fell asleep. 

*****

“Christ, is Target having a sale? Buy one emotionally stunted werewolf, get one free?” 

“I’m emotionally stunted?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You once recited a poem you wrote dedicate to Allison’s eyelashes. So, yes.” 

“But, the way the light catches them-” 

“I’m going to throw up on you.” 

Scott grinned, knocking at his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You finally got to see Lydia naked. Though it was like the worst possible circumstances ever and we’re not sure if she’s a werewolf or not and it will never happen again.” 

“That’s not helping,” Stiles moaned, shoving his lacrosse gear into his locker. “When do I ever think that you help?” 

“Hey, I figured out about Isaac!” 

“Only because of my cunning tactics and strategy,” Stiles quipped. “You are not the brains of this operation, buddy." 

Brushing away the comment with a shrug, Scott pulled on a T-shirt, hands pausing at the hem. “Do you think Derek turned him?” 

Stiles clenched his teeth; relaxed. “We set the only other Alpha in town on fire. I think it’s statistically likely that, yet again, this is Derek’s fault." 

And, if it wasn’t Derek’s fault, it was Jackson’s fault for being a dickbag. A giant bag of dicks. Seriously, who sees textbook child abuse and just ignores it? Jackson Douchecanoe Whittemore, that’s who. 

Though, as bad as that was, nothing had prepared him for Gerard Argent to beckon them into his office. The principal’s office. Because he was now their principal. 

“Dude, there has to be like regulations for that kind of shit,” Stiles hissed, pulling Scott away from Argent’s soul-sucking vacuum of darkness. “You just can’t have a new principal in a day. I’m pretty sure there’s a school board for a reason.” 

“This can’t be good,” Scott murmured. 

“You think?!” Stiles rolled his eyes at the understatement. He would have said more when Jackson came into view. Remembering his dad’s conversation, words seared his mouth open. “I guess human decency isn’t something you can buy, right, Jackson?” 

The boy turned, already mid-sneer. “I fail to see how it’s my problem, Stilinski.” 

“Of course. It’s not like he needed help and you so kindly ignored every opportunity,” Stiles sniped. “All it would’ve taken was a phone call, jackass.” 

“Whatever. It’s no skin off my back.” 

“No, it was skin off Isaac’s!” 

Jackson bared his teeth, taking a sharp step forward. For a moment, Stiles could have sworn his eyes flashed blue. “Back off!” 

It was that moment Scott stepped in. “Jackson,” he began, his voice low like he was soothing a wild animal, “what did you do?” 

That made Jackson startle before he schooled his face in his usual surly mask. “What are you talking about?” 

“You smell different,” Scott pressed forward. “You smell _bitten_.” 

Jackson scowled, averting his gaze. “So?" 

“So!?” Stiles yelped. “You let Derek Hale bite you? Are you insane?” 

“Shut up, Stilinski!” Jackson snapped, just before his expression became overwhelmingly smug. Stiles wanted to punch it. “If there’s anyone here that can handle it, it’s me. I’m not some loser who needs coaching just to make it through lunch period.” 

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Scott insisted. He laid a careful hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “If you need help, call me. Okay?” 

Jackson wavered for only a moment, then he shrugged Scott’s hand off. “I definitely don’t need help from you, McCall.” He made to stalk off, but turned for one last parting shot. “You better be careful, Stilinski. Wouldn’t want Little Red to get caught by the big, bad wolf.” 

Stiles barely managed to unclench his fists as Jackson disappeared from view. “What an asshole,” he muttered. “And, now he’s going to be an even bigger asshole with claws and teeth. That’s just peachy.” 

“I don’t know,” Scott mused. 

“Don’t know what?” 

Scott searched for words, giving it up in a shrug. “It’s just... he smelled bitten. But, he didn’t smell like a wolf.” 

It took a moment for those words to process. “What does that mean?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“This is so not good,” Stiles bemoaned, trudging down the hall alongside a pensive Scott. “I can’t believe Derek would turn Jackson of all people. Or attempt to turn. Whatever. I mean, it’s Jackson! Derek’s made some terrible decisions but this one - are you paying attention?!” 

Scott was looking out the window before his eyes went wide. “It’s Isaac!” 

Before Stiles could say a word, Scott was running down the hall and out the door. Stiles scrambled to the window, desperate to see what was going on. He caught the last glimpse of Isaac in the back of a police car before it pulled away. It was just a moment later when a familiar black Camaro screeched up to the front of the building. His fingers gripped the window ledge. He couldn’t hear what Scott and Derek were saying, but he could hazard a guess. When the door opened, Scott climbing in a moment later, Stiles felt his knuckles crack. 

“Mr. Stilinski!” 

Swallowing hard, Stiles tried his best not to glare at Mr. Harris. “Yes?” 

“I believe that detention usually requires your participation.” The man gave a reptilian smile. “Your suffering is just an added bonus.” 

His knees bounced. His fingers twitched. He glanced at the clock every 2.7 seconds. The sunlight slid across his desk until all that was left was the green-sick glow of fluorescent lighting. The threads at the cuff of his shirt were beginning to fray; he twisted them off. 

“You may go now, Mr. Stilinski. Try not to be such a miserable failure in the future.” 

Stiles was barely in the room to hear Harris’ parting shot. He immediately grabbed his phone and called Allison, tumbling out into the parking lot. 

“So,” she began, the picture of wolfsbane still bright on his phone. “What do we do?” 

“We?” He asked. 

“Well, yeah.” Her voice was warm but sharp. “We can’t let the werewolves get all the action.” 

Stiles’ mouth slid into a grin. “And, this is why I like you, Allison. Alright, here’s the plan.” 

The plan involved Allison being a badass and taking after the hunter with a bow in hand. As for Stiles’ plan, it involved a surly Alpha wolf who he had been carefully avoiding. Not all plans have a silver lining. 

“Get in,” he shouted into the darkness, passenger door already open. He had stopped on the side of the road, the forest shadowing either side of the Jeep. The fact that he knew Derek was creepering in the woods and it was only a matter of time before - and here the man was, leaping from the woods and into the car. 

“Do you just materialize out of the darkness?” Stiles asked. “I didn’t realize you were actually born of nightmares.” 

Derek slammed the door shut. “Drive.” 

Just because Stiles did just that, didn’t mean that he was obeying orders. “No need to be so pushy,” he sniped. “Except that is sort of your modus operandi. That and horrible decisions about who to allow into your pack.” 

“You’re not pack. You don’t get a say,” Derek snapped. 

Stiles felt a twinge of something in his chest, like pressing too hard against a bruise, but he knocked it aside in favor of scowling. “Of course, I’m not pack. I’m just the skinny human sidekick that drives your ass everywhere and keeps you from inevitable failure.” 

Derek glared at the road, but remained silent. At least for a few seconds. “I’m not making horrible decisions.” 

“Oh my God, you totally are!” Stiles retorted. “Do the words Jackson Whittemore mean anything to you?" 

“... He asked for it.” 

“So, you forget to take his references? Ignore the whole interview process?” Stiles gripped the wheel as he screeched into a turn. “The dude is a grade-A asshat. He has no redeemable qualities whatsoever. That’s not the kind of person you want to bestow supernatural abilities and raging animal instinct upon.” 

Derek made a grumbling noise, which sounded like he was trying to come up with an argument but failing miserably. “I’m the Alpha,” he finally replied. “It’s my decision.” 

“Well, it’s a terrible one that you will regret for all time. You now have to deal with Jackson Whittemore for a beta. Your suffering has just begun.” 

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Derek grumbled. “It didn’t take.” 

Stiles opened his mouth but nothing came out. He paused; tried again. “What do you mean ‘it didn’t take?’” 

“It just didn’t take.” 

“But, that’s impossible!” Stiles insisted. “The bite is a one and done kind of deal. There’s no takebacks.” 

Derek growled, frustrated. “You don’t think I know that?” He demanded. 

The resulting quiet was thick, clogging up the air so it was hard to breathe. “So, what do you think that means?” Stiles managed to ask. 

“I have no idea,” Derek muttered, crossing his arms over his chest, the leather of his jacket creaking. 

Stiles snorted. “Well, that’s no surprise, considering you’ve been an Alpha for all of five minutes.” 

“... Shut up.” 

“You really ought to take on advisors,” Stiles pointed out. “I have been doing an excellent job with one McCall, first name Scott. You might know him as the annoying Beta who refuses to listen to anything you say.” 

“I’m familiar,” Derek grumbled. “And, no, I don’t need advice from spotty teenagers whose testicles have barely dropped.” 

Stiles was nearly speechless, stunned at the sass of this man, but that didn’t last long. “Dude! No need to go after the manhood, alright? Let’s keep this above the belt.” 

“Like you haven’t been going for low blows.” 

“Jesus Christ, and you’re supposed to be the adult,” Stiles muttered. “If I wanted to go for a low blow, I would have started with Isaac.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles could see Derek turn, looking at him for the first time since climbing into the car. Since Laura’s birthday. “You think Isaac was a bad choice? I thought you of all people would understand that.” 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Stiles started. “I can see where you’re coming from. But, Derek, he’s a traumatized kid living in constant fear. Of course, he’s gonna take the bite. What you forgot was that he’s now a traumatized werewolf that will continue living in constant fear. His dad was temporary but hunters? Those guys are forever.” 

“He has the means to take care of himself now,” Derek argued, turning back to the road with a scowl. “I’ll teach him.” 

“So what, this is some sort of supernatural Dead Poet’s Society? Oh Alpha, my Alpha?” 

“I don’t expect you to understand.” 

“That’s probably because you’ve done a shitty job of explaining.” 

“I don’t owe you anything.” 

It wasn’t more than a whisper; it felt like a slap. Stiles swallowed down gravel. “No,” he agreed. “You don’t.” 

They didn’t speak anymore until they got to the station. Even the moments of banter between them were tinged in acid now, burning through their words with what was left unspoken. Stiles wondered if that’s all they were meant for as the hunter dragged him down the hall, the rough hand over his mouth pushing air back down into his burning lungs. He slumped against the wall, staring into the bestial face of Isaac Lahey, teeth bared and eyes blank but for rage. It seemed strange that, even now, it was only when Derek stood between them, roaring his Beta into submission, that Stiles felt safe. 

He wondered what that meant. 

“How did you do that?” 

“I’m the Alpha.” 

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware, some canon divergence ahead!


	9. Dead in The Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They broke the surface, sputtering for air. Stiles secured Derek around his shoulder, propping his chin out of the water. It was soon made clear, the screech of the monster reverberating off the walls, that they weren’t going to be leaving the water anytime soon.
> 
> “So, this is awesome,” Stiles muttered.
> 
> Chapter title: [Dead in The Water - Ellie Goulding](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

How was it possible that he was suddenly and blissfully alone with Lydia Martin and Stiles found himself itching to leave?

“Five minutes,” he promised, stumbling out of the car. “Just five minutes, I promise.”

She was staring at him, pale face slick with salt, and she was easily one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. He wanted to feel the warmth of her along his side. He wanted her tears to burn through his thumbprints as he wiped them away. He wanted to hear her laugh, throaty from tears, and know it was because of him.

He still needed to leave.

“I’ll be right back,” was his parting shot as he scrambled toward the school. Stiles would never get over how creepy it was at night, considering that one of the last times he was here after hours he had narrowly avoided being butchered. Stalking into Gerard’s office, he quickly found a whole lot of nothing. So, he wasn’t going to actually help Scott or spend time with Lydia. This just wasn’t his week.

Especially when he nearly jumped out of his skin seeing Erica framed in the doorway.

“Hi, Stiles.”

“Hi, Erica,” he greeted. He seriously did not need this right now. “Out for an evening stroll? I prefer long walks on the beach myself, but the creepy, abandoned school halls do have a certain je ne sais quoi.”

Her smile didn’t even slip. “You seem to have a predilection for them yourself.”

“Busting out the SAT vocab I see,” he chuckled, fingers twitching. “That’s cool - so listen, this has been nice catching up but-”

“Someone wants to see you,” she interrupted.

Stiles’ jaw tightened. Three guesses who that was. “Hmm, let’s see. Is he dark, brooding, with the shoulders and the overbite?” He gesticulated to emphasize his point.

Erica snorted, her sex-and-power aura wavering just for a second from actual amusement. “That’s a pretty good description,” she admitted. “You forgot to mention the eyebrows though.”

He snapped his fingers. “How could I forget those arbiters of doom? They’re pretty much the only method Derek has to convey his entire emotional spectrum: angry, more angry, homicidal.”

She smirked, but it was plastic again. She snaked a hand forward, beckoning him with a single finger. “We have an appointment to make,” she reminded him.

Rolling his eyes, he shuffled forward, and the two of them started down the hall. It was still just as creepy as before, even without the psychotic Alpha chasing them down. It made his skin itch.

“So,” he began, unable to keep well enough alone, “how’s the werewolf gig treating you? I heard the perks are good, but the mood swings are a bitch.”

“What do you think?” she asked.

It took him a moment to think of anything. He remembered Scott before, gangly and asthmatic and brimming with self-doubt. The Scott now was strong and fast, racing to protect the people he cared about, even if that was mostly Allison. But, he also remembered chaining his friend to a radiator, the look of feral hunger that flashed in gold.

“I think it’s not worth it,” he answered. He felt Erica’s gaze on him, even as he stared forward. “Sure, you get strength and speed, the ability to heal. But, you aren’t you anymore. You’re a wolf now, even if you look human. Scott forgets that, sometimes.”

“So... you would never?”

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t think so. I like myself, actually, despite all the self-deprecation and disparaging sarcasm.” He jammed his fists into his pockets to keep them still. “I like being my mother’s son.”

There was an unhappy sound beside him. “You’d still be her son even as a werewolf.”

“I know,” he replied. “But, my mother was human when she was alive. I’d like to keep all the pieces of her that I can.”

Erica said nothing to that, the two of them lapsing into silence as they continued down the halls. After a few minutes, it was obvious where they were going. Stiles tried not to roll his eyes too hard.

“The pool?” he asked. “That’s where we’re going to do this?”

“You have a better idea?” Erica snapped.

“How about we not do this at all,” Stiles suggested. “I have a beautiful strawberry blonde that needs my comfort - OW! That’s my ear!”

“So, it is.”

And, that’s how Stiles was yanked into the room, ignoring the bite of chlorine from the pool. Derek was waiting, holding a basketball of all things, and Erica released him to make her way to her Alpha’s side.

“Stiles,” Derek greeted, that smarmy, fake grin pulled across his face.

Stiles really hated that smile. “Derek.”

Erica was practically bouncing on her toes, showing her teeth to him in what was genuinely unsettling. His pulse was fluttering fast, and Stiles knew they could hear it as clearly as words.

“So,” Derek began, and somehow his pretend smiling was so much more threatening than his glower. Stiles missed the glower. “What did you see at the mechanic’s garage?”

“Uhh, several alarming EPA violations that I’m seriously considering reporting.”

As a response, Derek decided to claw into a basketball, letting the deflated husk speak for itself. Stiles grit his teeth. So, they had moved to silent threats now.

“Let’s try that again,” Derek warned.

Stiles stared at the basketball on the ground. If this was a metaphor, it was an apt one. Not for the possibility of physical violence, but for everything else. Deflated, torn open. Dead.

He refused to care anymore. “So, I saw something. What of it?”

“We want a description.”

“Yeah, I really don’t have time for this,” Stiles snapped, stepping forward only to have Erica slither in front of him, baring her teeth that seemed too large for her mouth. “Christ, Derek, call off Cujo.”

Erica snarled at that. “Dog jokes? How cliche.”

“Erica.”

She whipped her head around, scowling at Derek’s wordless nod. Slinking backwards, she plastered herself to Derek’s side instead, grinning. Stiles tried not to be annoyed. He was even mostly successful.

Derek didn’t even seem to notice. “I don’t want to resort to threats.”

“Oh, that’ll be a pleasant change,” Stiles snarked. “Let me guess. You’ll rip my throat out. With your teeth.”

The fact that Derek almost smiled at that (a real smile, not one of his too-charming false ones) made it even worse. “Start talking, Stiles.”

“Fine,” he huffed. “It was sort of slick-looking. Skin was dark, kind of patterned. Uhh, I think I actually saw scales.” His mind wracked through the images from the garage, trying to sort it out without the soundtrack of terrified screams that had haunted him since. “Is that enough? Because I have someone I really need to talk to.”

Derek flashed him an annoyed look. Like Stiles was wasting his time, and not the other way around. Sometimes, the physical disparity between the two of them really sucked, because Stiles was inches away from punching him in that too-perfect jaw. Which would only result in breaking his own hand rather than Derek’s face.

“Alright, fine. Eyes... eyes are yellow-ish. And slitted. Has a lot of teeth.”

Derek glanced upward, his focus shifted, and Stiles swallowed the bite of irritation.

“Oh!” He remembered. “It’s got a tail too. Are we good?”

The two werewolves weren’t paying him any attention, still looking upward. Erica’s too-smug expression from earlier had slipped away, lost beneath something like fear. He knew that look, had felt that fear in his bones not too long ago.

“What? Wait, have you seen it? You have this look on your faces like you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

When they didn’t answer, it was answer enough. He turned, gaze catching those yellow eyes from before. Seeing the creature again, the blue glow from the pool rippling over its scaled flesh, had him choking on panic. It screamed and Stiles stumbled back, falling behind Derek’s shoulder on an animal instinct. The monster leapt from its perch to the floor, claws scratching the tiles, and Derek moved forward. Not in front of Erica, like Stiles would have thought, had thought just minutes ago. Derek crouched low in front of him, his own claws bared, growling out a warning to the beast before them.

Its tail snapped; Erica crashed against the wall before falling to the floor. He couldn’t feel his legs, couldn’t think of moving, even as Derek stood his ground. Stiles bit back the shocked gasp at the hand pressed against the center of his chest, pushing him backwards. 

“Run!”

There was a blur of movement, the claws of the creature too fast to see. What Stiles did see was the small scratch that had appeared on the back of Derek’s neck, the way Derek was already beginning to stumble.

“Derek, your neck!”

He finally found his feet, shoved into motion as Derek’s knees buckled. He hoisted Derek’s arm over his shoulders and started to run. Derek was already beginning to lose balance, slowly dragged down by gravity and weighing heavier against his side. They couldn’t see the creature, panic flying between the two of them like static electricity.

“We need to call Scott,” Derek slurred.

Stiles fumbled to grab his phone. His fear-numb fingers slid uselessly over it before it dropped from his hand. He reached down to get it, felt that warm, heavy weight slip away.

“Call Scott!”

There was a splash, and then silence. Stiles looked between the phone and the dark figure sinking below the surface of the water. There was no choice. He dove in.

They broke the surface, sputtering for air. Stiles secured Derek around his shoulder, propping his chin out of the water. It was soon made clear, the screech of the monster reverberating off the walls, that they weren’t going to be leaving the water anytime soon.

“So, this is awesome,” Stiles muttered.

Derek fumed silently against him. Stiles wondered if he still thought himself as threatening with his hair plastered to his forehead and his ears sticking out like that. Whatever, they were still probably going to die.

“We need to call Scott,” Derek snapped.

“Really?” Stiles gaped. “What a miraculous idea! I hadn’t thought of that. If only I had some other prehensile limb - oh wait. They’re being used to keep you from drowning.”

Derek made a grumbling noise; it vibrated into Stiles’ chest. “We can’t stay in here forever.”

“But, Derek! I thought this was such a nice place to settle down. And, it’s in our price range too.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Derek didn’t have anything to say to that. Seems that without the threat of physical violence, Derek wasn’t so keen on getting into verbal debates. Not that it surprised Stiles, because Derek wasn’t exactly verbose on a good day, much less paralyzed with the threat of drowning still outweighed by the vicious mauling that awaited them out of the water.

“Can you get me out of here before I drown?” Derek snapped.

“You’re worried about drowning?” Seriously, perspective. “Did you notice the thing out there with multiple rows of razor sharp teeth?”

“Did you noticed that I’m paralyzed from the neck down in eight feet of water?!”

Okay, he had a point. Stiles did his best to look around over Derek’s shoulder, sucking in air like it was his dying breath. He really hoped it wasn’t. The monster had vanished, the pool seemingly empty. It was only when Stiles tried to swim closer to the edge -

“Wait!” Derek ordered. “ Stop!”

Stiles looked over, saw the reptilian shadow snaking along the wall. The creature circled the pool, slipping past his peripheral vision.

“What’s it waiting for?” Stiles wondered. It’s not like supernatural beasties had a lot of self-control when it came to murder and mayhem. They were vulnerable; Derek was more than vulnerable, held up by nothing more than Stiles Stilinski.

“I don’t know,” Derek admitted. “But, I don’t like it.”

“Join the club. We’ve got a membership packet.”

Derek glared at him from the corner of his eye. “You’re sarcastic even now? Moments away from death?”

Stiles would have shrugged, but he was busy carrying a water-logged werewolf on his shoulder. “It’s not like I have any other options. You guys have the claws and fangs. I have sarcasm. It evens out.”  
Derek snorted. “If you say so.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m always right,” Stiles countered, “except for all the times when I’m wrong.”

“That’s a shock.”

“I wouldn’t go pointing fingers, dude. I’m the one constantly saving your ass from the consequences of your terrible choices.”

“How is this my fault?!”

“I don’t know but it probably is.”

Derek growled against him, sending vibrations through his ribs, and Stiles bit back a laugh. “Stop it! That tickles!”

The wolf stopped abruptly. “You’re really not scared of me, are you?”

Stiles tried to give him an admonishing look, but his head’s turn radius was limited. “I haven’t been afraid of you since the beginning,” he said. Derek didn’t say anything, and Stiles felt his stomach dip. “Did you want me to be?”

“No!” The exclamation was too loud in the silence of the pool, echoing off the walls. “No,” Derek repeated, quieter. “That’s not... I didn’t want you to be. I just thought...”

“You thought that I would be,” Stiles finished. “What, because you’re a werewolf? I think I got over that pretty quickly.”

“Maybe too quickly.”

Stiles gripped Derek’s torso tighter. “If you don’t think I’m well aware of the constant danger I am in, you’re wrong. Case in point: now.”

It was hard to deny when the lizard creature was still circling, glaring at them and hissing as if to remind them it was still there. Stiles watched it pass by the divestands. Tentatively, it reached out to the water, its claws barely breaking the surface before snatching back.

“Did you see that?” Stiles mind was racing. “I don’t think it can swim.”

The knowledge sunk in, changed the situation. If the lizard couldn’t swim, it meant they were safe in the water. Trying to climb out would only get them killed. On the other hand, Stiles was slowly being dragged down by a 180-pound paralyzed werewolf, which would eventually drown them both. Neither of these were attractive options.

“That’s almost good news,” Derek sniped. “Except that I’m still unable to move and likely to drown as soon as you drop me.”

“I’m not going to drop you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” Stiles fumed. “I can and I will. I’m not letting you go and - Goddammit - I just quoted Titanic. I am ashamed of myself.”

Derek made a rumbling noise and Stiles was shocked to hear it was laughter. “I bet you secretly love that movie. Watch it at least once a year and have a good cry over it.”

It was actually twice a year but Derek didn’t need to know that. “Shut up. It’s a masterpiece of cinema.”

This time, the wolf outright laughed. “I never would have pegged you for a Winslet fan.”

“What can I say? I have a thing for redheads and confident, rogue-ish men.” The words just came tumbling out and it was too late to snatch them back up. “Umm, did I just come out?”

“... uhh...”

“I cannot believe it,” Stiles continued, blatantly ignoring Derek’s obvious discomfort (other than the paralysis, of course). “I just came out as bisexual to the local Alpha werewolf and my former best friend as I prevent him from drowning while the Beast from the Black Lagoon awaits eating our flesh. Seriously, _my life_.”

Derek’s head gave a small jerk, nearly knocking into Stiles’ own. “Did you...”

“I thought I just went over this-”

“You said former best friend.”

Stiles stopped at that; he swallowed. “Yeah, I said that.”

“Did you mean it?”

It took a moment to parse out a response. “Yeah,” Stiles acceded. “I meant it. The best friend part and the former part.”

There was nothing much to say after that. Stiles watched the clock run down, the second hand ticking away and sapping his strength. His legs burned; his arms screamed from the strain. There was no way they were going to make it like this. Eventually, his strength would give out, leaving Derek sinking to the bottom with no way to surface. Stiles grit his teeth, started eyeing the edge of the pool. His phone was still there. Maybe if he could-

“No, no, no!” Derek shouted. “Do not even think about it!”

“Could you just trust me this once?!” Stiles pleaded. “I’m the one keeping you alive - have you noticed that?”

“Yeah,” Derek sneered, “and when the paralysis wears off, who’s going to be able to fight that thing: you or me?”

Stiles jaw dropped; he choked on chlorine. “So, that’s why I’ve been holding you up for the past two hours?”

“You don’t trust me!” Derek’s head had fallen back, his eyes wild and looking up at Stiles. “I don’t trust you. But, you need me to survive, which is why you’re not letting me go!”

It felt like his chest was filled with cement, the weight of it threatening to pull him down through the silent water to the bottom of the pool. It wasn’t that he had expected Derek’s trust (those red-within-red eyes trusted no one), but after all those hours on the phone, after clutching those shaking shoulders on the floor of his bedroom, tending his wounds when no one else would -

Stiles sucked in a breath and let Derek fall.

“Stiles!” There was a gasp of his name and then the sound of water. He swam over to the edge, his legs flailing weak, his arms nearly useless. The creature was waiting, tail flicking in anticipation. With a burst of strength, Stiles grabbed his phone just as the lizard-thing rushed forward. Breathing heavy, he pushed back to the center of the pool, keeping the phone above water.

Thank God Scott was on speed dial. “Scott!”

“I can’t talk right now.” Click. Then silence.

Stiles stared at his phone, the blank screen. Scott had hung up on him. He glanced down beneath him, where a still, dark figure laid against the white tiles. Cursing, he tossed the phone away and dove under.

It was like another world. Peaceful. Silent. He kicked harder, trying to squint through the water, the chlorine burning his eyes. He reached forward, clutching at Derek’s shirt before pulling him up by the shoulders. They broke the surface with strangled gulps for air.

“Tell me you got him,” Derek pleaded.

Stiles said nothing, just buried his cheek against his hair, pulling his shoulders closer. The hesitation was answer enough; he could hear Derek cursing beneath his breath. It didn’t stop the words from pouring out of his mouth. “He hung up on me.”

Derek fell silent.

The words scraped through the ache in his bones. “He hung up on me,” he repeated, almost laughing. “My best friend since third grade - and he hung up.” Anger punched him in the gut; strength surged into his limbs. “It’s not like I couldn’t have used the fucking help, you know? S’not like I haven’t nearly _fucking_ died trying to help him through this whole _fucking_ mess ever since your _fucking_ uncle _fucking_ bit him and turned him into a _fucking_ werewolf!”

He sucked in another breath; the chlorine burned the back of his throat. “I was going to ask for help,” he whispered. “That’s all.”

Water lapped at the tile, the soft sound echoing of the walls. The shadow of the beast still lurked in the corners of the room, the scratch of its claws on the floor as it circled the pool was the only sound it made as it waited. And, it wouldn’t have to wait long. Stiles could feel his strength beginning to lag as his anger evaporated, the weight of the past few hours pressing down on him.

“... I’m sorry.”

It took a second for the words to register. “About what?” Stiles asked.

“I-” Derek cut himself off. Stiles could almost hear his silent struggle with words. “I got your number from a flyer,” he finally replied. “It was posted on the wall while I was waiting for my coffee. I didn’t think about it at the time. But, every morning it was there and I would stare at it and wonder what kind of people could do that - sit at the phones all day just waiting for them to ring, waiting to talk the next person off the ledge.”

Stiles wasn’t sure where Derek was going with this. It felt heavy, barbed with things that he would rather forget. They hadn’t talked about this for quite some time, the beginning of whatever was between them, friendship or anger or silence. But, he did what he was good at. He listened.

“It said for anyone who needed help,” Derek murmured. “And, there was one day while I was waiting and I thought about Laura and my family and the fire and Kate and everything and I thought that I needed help, too. Even if I didn’t deserve it. So, I called. And, you answered.” Derek looked up at him. “You helped me and I’m sorry that I never helped you.”

His bones felt made of glass. “Derek,” he sputtered, “of course, you’ve helped me. You’ve saved my life at least three times now. I think that counts.”

“Not in the way that matters,” Derek spat. “Not in the way you saved mine.”

There was nothing Stiles could say to that. It felt like a deathbed confession. It felt like a prayer. He buried his face in Derek’s hair, squeezing his shoulders. “I got you, Derek,” he whispered. “I got you.”

But, it was only a matter of time before the water dragged them down. There was a moment of pure, ringing silence, before he felt hands grab him and yank him back into noise once again. With noise came air and solid ground beneath him and Stiles had never felt so grateful to be on dry land again. Despite being soaking wet, huddling on the tiles as Scott heroically saved the day (again), he had somehow never felt better. Like the water had washed him clean.

“Here.”

He looked up at Derek, already on his feet and holding out his hand. A cease-fire. Stiles took it, letting Derek haul him to his feet. “Thanks.”

Derek only nodded. It was only when they had walked out of the school that conversation restarted. Now, they had a name for the monster - the kanima. Something that wasn’t meant to be, a creature twisted into unnatural shape.

“An abomination,” Stiles answered.

He watched the way Derek’s throat bobbed, his eyes clear and honest and without a trace of red, before he nodded in agreement. They parted ways that night in silence, not quite enemies, not quite allies. Derek’s motives were clear, his intentions less so. The man had been choking on blood and ashes for so long, Stiles wasn’t sure he knew any other way. That didn’t mean his pulse jumped any less when he finally arrived home to see a disposable cell phone left on his desk, the cool breeze breathing in through the open window. He picked up the phone, already beeping with a text message.

_Until you replace your old one, I figure this will do for now - D_

Stiles, soaked in chlorine and muscles screaming with exhaustion, found himself grinning.

_Yeah, this will work - S_

For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should mention (as no doubt it is obvious) that some of the dialogue in these chapters are taken straight from the episodes and aren't mine.


	10. Forever's Not So Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The walk to chemistry was stretched out like taffy, his steps dragging forward. Scott was next to him, snarling about Derek and his terrible decisions and how he was a murderer and needed to be stopped. The words floated around him like water, stinking of chlorine, but Stiles said nothing until they got to the classroom.
> 
> “He can’t kill her,” he bit out. “I won’t let him.”
> 
> Chapter title:[DeVotchKa - How It Ends](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

A tentative truce was struck. Of sorts. Kinda. Stiles really wasn’t one for ambiguities. All he knew was that, when he woke up the next morning, there was already a text on his phone.

_People seem to think that being a former murder suspect makes you untrustworthy - D_

Stiles muffled a smile into his pillow. He held off on answering until he had showered and eaten breakfast, giving his dad the stinkeye when he tried to sneak in that last slice of bacon. It was only when he hopped into his car, listening to his engine rattle away, that he typed out a reply.

_Your face certainly doesn’t help. - S_

Ignoring the text alert sounding from his backpack as he drove was harder than he expected, but Stiles maintained his composure until he was safely parked at the high school.

_My face? My face is fine - D_

_Yeah, it is - S_

Stiles smirked to himself all through first period at that one. He would have taken surreptitious glances at his phone under his desk, but Scott was already looking at him strangely and that was really not a conversation he wanted to have. So he waited until he waved Scott off to trig before checking the reply.

_Not really what I meant (also, thank you, I guess?) - D_

_You should thank superior genetics. All I got was the grace of a newborn giraffe and a plethora of moles. But, back to the face, it just sorta naturally falls into mugshot readiness. Is that also genetic? - S_

_1\. Werewolf = already superior genetics 2. Sort of? It’s sort of a resting position 3. What moles? - D_

Stiles took a moment to snort into his elbow at that. Derek Hale, sufferer of resty bitching face. Who was surprised? Not this guy.

_Well, cut that shit out. It doesn’t help the whole perception of murder. And the moles aren’t really in see-able places. - S_

It was only after pressing send that Stiles marvel at the extreme awkward phrasing of his last texts and hope for swift and immediate death.

_I don’t really think I can change my face, Stiles - D_

Whew. Derek had chosen to completely avoid the potentially life-ending embarrassment of a situation. For once.

_So the sideburns are a personal choice? - S_

_Don’t be an ass - D_

_But they’re so fluffy! - S_

_I will end you - D_

Stiles only barely managed not to burst out into laughter in the middle of the hallway like a crazy person. Of course, his good mood was abruptly ruined by Jackson’s question about the kanima. It’s not that Jackson was always a source of good and reliable information, like a douchier Wikipedia, but the guy looked genuinely rattled. But, the idea that Lydia, ginger, genius goddess Lydia, was somehow that creature at the pool - 

No. No, it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. He would know it.

“Lydia’s... fine,” he insisted. Even as she stood at the front of the classroom, her silent scream for SOMEONEHELPME SOMEONEHELPME scratched across the chalkboard. Lydia had to be fine.

She just had to be.

“Derek wants to kill the kanima,” Scott murmured under his breath, to himself. A moment later, he looked at him and Stiles felt his stomach drop. “That means if Lydia is the kanima-”

“Don’t-”

“He’ll kill her.”

Bile burned the back of his throat; he swallowed it down. “No,” he insisted, “he won’t”

“Yes, he will.” Scott’s whole face was lined with tension, his jaw clenched. “And, you know it.”

Scott was right. Of course, he was right. Derek’s policy since he had burned back into Beacon Hills was kill first and deal with self-loathing later. If Derek really believed that Lydia was a threat, regardless of what she knew or felt or what was actually going on, he wasn’t going to hesitate. The man had been forced to kill his uncle - to kill _family_. He wasn’t going to hesitate over a girl he never met.

The walk to chemistry was stretched out like taffy, his steps dragging forward. Scott was next to him, snarling about Derek and his terrible decisions and how he was a murderer and needed to be stopped. The words floated around him like water, stinking of chlorine, but Stiles said nothing until they got to the classroom.

“He can’t kill her,” he bit out. “I won’t let him.”

“He’s not going to kill her without proof,” Scott reassured him. The rest of the class was an uphill battle, like Sisyphus rolling that rock up the hill and the evil twins standing at the top smiling like the creepers they were. Sitting next to Isaac, who had transformed from shy kid to cocky wolf, still just as broken but hiding the pieces, made him want to punch Derek in the face again. It had nearly broken his hand, and the guy had even been unconscious at the time, but the douchebag in the leather jacket next to him was a far cry from fixed. Then again, so was Derek.

“If you hurt one perfect strawberry-blonde hair on her head, I’m going to turn your little werewolf ass into a fur coat and give it to her as a birthday present.”

The thing about being human is that the werewolves don’t take you seriously. Isaac just laughed, Erica rolled her eyes, even Boyd would just ignore him like an annoying bug not worth the effort to squash. And, that’s where these pups were obviously lacking. Because the shocked look on Scott’s face said everything. Stiles was serious. There was no skip in his heartbeat, no stutter in his blood. Had these pups been any wiser, or well-trained, they would have known better. Derek should know better.

Even as the drop of venom slicked those perfectly glossed lips, even as the Isaac and Erica readied their teeth into hungry smiles, Stiles knew that he was going to have to make a stand.

“It’s Derek,” Scott hissed.

Stiles out the window, saw the dark figure leaning against the Camaro. He grit his teeth. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I see him.”

The bell rang and Stiles had his phone in hand, pushing through the crowd of students and away from Scott calling his name. He dialed the number and didn’t have to wait long.

“There’s no other way.”

“You’re so full of bullshit, you know that?” Stiles spat, pushing into the auditorium. It was empty this time of day, and he climbed up into the empty soundbox to slam the door shut. “You’re not even trying to look for options.”

“And, what option is there, Stiles?” Derek demanded. “Hope that we can talk her out of it? She’s a monster and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

“You haven’t even tried!” His voice echoed in the small room, ringing in his head. “You didn’t even know what this thing was yesterday and this test of yours came out of a goddamn episode of Discovery Channel. You’re making shit up as you go along and, what’s worse, you believe it!”

“I don’t believe in anything,” Derek growled. “I just know that people are dying and I have to stop it.”

If he had hair, Stiles would have been pulling it out right now. As it were, he dug his fingers into his skull, the pain helping him focus. “I don’t disagree with you,” he admitted. “I don’t want people to die either. But, Derek, you don’t even know it’s her. Not really. It’s nothing more than Russian Roulette.”

Derek made a frustrated noise. “What do you want me to do then, Stiles? Wait until she kills again? How many people have to die before you decided it’s enough?”

“And, how many people do you have to kill before you feel better, Derek?” Stiles challenged. The air was pungent with scorn. “Except that you never feel better. You feel shittier and shittier until you actually are the murderer that people think you are and what then? Where the fuck will you be?”

There was a long silence. “Who are you trying to save here, Stiles?” Derek asked, too soft not to be lethal. “Me or her?”

The question struck him in the chest, knocking the breath right out of him. “Can’t it be both?” Stiles whispered. “Can’t I save you both?”

It was almost too quiet too be heard, but he knew that Derek heard him. Would always hear him. “It’s too late for me,” the wolf finally replied. “I’m past saving. But, you can try to save her.”

The phone went dead. Stiles slid it into his pocket, letting his head hang heavy. A moment later, he stood up straight and went looking for Scott. He was going to save someone tonight. And, if he was lucky, he was going to save them both.

*****

It had only been a matter of time before it came to this. The line had been drawn between Scott and Derek, a nearly physical thing. Allison was shaking next to him, breathing heavy, but her shoulders remained straight and her gaze never wavered. Scott stood just in front of them on the porch, staring down Derek with a self-assuredness that was as real as it was recent.

“So, Scott,” Derek began, his smile sharp, “you have your own pack now.”

Stiles felt those sea-green eyes flash to him for less than a moment, but the accusation was as clear as if there were words. Knots twisted in his stomach, acid burning his tongue. He remained silent.

When Lydia ran out of the house, breaking up the stare down just before the battle over her life, it was nearly comical. Stiles couldn’t really find it in him to laugh. A few more terse statement later and Derek and his pack were melting into the shadows, leaving them with the same tension thick in the air.

“Can anyone please explain to me what the hell is going on?” Lydia, snapped, tossing her strawberry hair over her shoulder.

For the first time in a long time, Stiles couldn’t find the words. It’s not exactly like he could say she had just narrowly avoided assassination by werewolf in a supernatural showdown over a lizard monster.

“It’s complicated,” Allison interjected, stepping up to save them. “Let’s just get out of here before anything weirder happens.”

The girls left, and it was just Stiles and Scott again, facing the darkness like they knew what they were doing. It seemed like Scott did, or at least thought he did. Scott’s stubborn streak was the stuff of legend, reminiscent of 300 Spartans facing down death. Stiles hoped the metaphor wasn’t too much of a parallel.

“We have to stop him.”

It took Stiles a moment to realize Scott had spoken. “Who?”

Scott whirled around, jaw clenched. “Derek,” he insisted. “We have to stop him before he kills anybody. I’m not going to let him run this town like he owns it.”

“Seriously, Scott?” Stiles blurted out before he could think, disbelief and frustration sparking his nerve endings. “You don’t think we have more important things to worry about? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for stopping him before he makes any more ridiculously stupid decisions, but at least he has mostly good intentions. That’s more than I can say for the kanima. Or Gerard freaking Argent for that matter.”

“Why are you defending him?” Scott demanded. “He was going to kill Lydia.”

And, the knowledge of that made his skin ache, had his chest threatening to split at the seams. The thought of her hurt or worse - it was too horrible to think about. But, his hands remembered the shuddering tension in Derek’s shoulders as he struggled not to break, gentle breaths of laughter across the phone line, the way he kept putting himself in front of Stiles.

“I’m not saying that’s okay. It’s actually vehemently not okay.”

“Then, stop defending him!”

“Somebody has to!” The words were out before he could stop them, before he could think about the damage. Stiles fought the urge to slap a hand over his mouth, choke the words back down, but they had already escaped, were out in the open for the world to hear. So, he did nothing, just let the silence ring.

Scott’s expression was shadowed. “You’re with him?” He growled, eyes flashing amber. “After all that he’s done?”

Yeah, Stiles had had quite enough with werewolf posturing for one evening. “I’m with nobody,” he spat out. “I am my own person, Scott, and don’t you forget that. But, you are my best friend and I’m going to stand by you, have stood by you since you started turning furry and tried to eat me on multiple occasions. And, yes, Derek was made some fantastically shitty decisions.” Stiles swallowed, trying to lower the heartbeat he knew was sounding out like drums. “But, he’s also saved my life. More than once, actually. When he didn’t have to. And, I’ve saved his.”

“You don’t owe him anything,” Scott argued, and Stiles could see the wolf beneath the surface, a feral heat that would never dissipate. It was part of Scott now and it didn’t matter how he ran, the wolf would never be far behind.

“I do, though,” Stiles replied, quiet, watching Scott’s eyes melt back to chocolate brown. “I owe him and he owes me. The way you and I owe each other.”

“But, I’m your friend, Stiles,” Scott tried one last time. “Derek is not your friend!”

Stiles glanced toward the street where Derek had stood, smiling false and expression hard. Like a living memory, he could still feel those fingers burying into his sides, the scrap of stubble against his neck. Eyes of seafoam watching him, stained with blood and ashes.

“No,” he agreed. “We are not friends.”

He didn’t think anything would come out of it, though the words kept circling in his head as he drove after the kanima, Scott silent in the passenger seat. Waiting outside the barrier, Stiles fists tightened on the wheel, his teeth grinding together. This was the worst part of it: the waiting. Nothing more than the sidekick now, a useless Robin to Scott’s superhuman Batman. Hell, even Derek-

Who was suddenly crawling into his jeep.

“Jesus Christ!” Stiles yelped as the Alpha collapsed into his passenger seat. “Could you honestly not?!”

Derek wiped the blood from his mouth. “I just need a moment to heal my ribs,” he said, leaning his head back. “I’ll just be a minute.”

There was nothing Stiles could say to that. Both of them sat in the quiet, not looking at each other. It wasn’t long before Derek sighed, stretching.

Stiles couldn’t help a glance over. “Are you good?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered, “Good as I’ll ever be.”

“Good enough to admit you were wrong?”

Derek slid him a sideways glare. “Is right now really the time?”

“It’s not really a complex soliloquy I’m expecting. Just a simple ‘Stiles, you were right and I regret ever not listening to your inherent rightness’ or something to that effect.”

Derek opened the door, slipping back outside. “I’ll think of something,” he replied, running into the darkness.

Stiles almost smiled at that, though he nearly had his second heart attack of the night when Scott threw himself inside the jeep. “Christ, this is terrible for my blood pressure.”

“Drive!”

They drove off, twisting in and out of alleyways after an ever elusive shadows. When they eventually stopped, it was deep into downtown and Stiles could barely recognize where they were. It was only when glitter showered over him, three drag queens immediately pressing in and squealing over his dimples, that Stiles became fully aware of their location. Even if they were on a kanima watch mission, it still burned that Scott was getting free drinks. It’s not that Scott wasn’t relatively attractive, in that he’s-practically-related-and-that’s-mildly-gross kind of way. But, here he was, recently uncloseted bisexual, and all Stiles had to show for it was twice as many people to reject him.

The kanima was hiding in the shadows of the ceiling, and Scott’s claws were already out. Now, it was just a matter of getting Danny to safety. Stiles tried pushing forward, but the crowd surged around him, blocking him in. He flailed, caught in the mass of bodies, panic clawing its ways upwards. He nearly lost his breath entirely when hands grabbed his hips and he found himself pulled against a broad chest.

A mouth brushed against his ear. “You’re not helping.”

He could feel his pulse in his mouth. “I could say the same about you, Derek.”

The answering growl rumbled across his skin. “You could stand to be a little less conspicuous.”

Stiles snorted. “Please. Absolutely zero people are noticing me. If I were any less conspicuous, I’d be invisible.”

“You’re such an idiot.” The voice was soft even as hard fingers bit into his hips. Stiles had barely noticed the way Derek was swaying them together, even as he shuffled them forward. They were almost-dancing their way through the crowd and Stiles had to throw his head back with a bark of laughter.

He leaned his head on Derek’s shoulder, finally looking to wolf in the eye. “I see what you did there,” he smirked. “Play-acting through the crowd. I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks.”

“Who said these were new tricks?”

The implication came a moment later and it suddenly became much harder to breathe because had their mouths always been this close? “You... you mean-”

“Yeah.”

The word brushed over his mouth and he couldn’t keep from shuddering, his hips rocking back. His mind whited out, his body screaming electric as stubble brushed his cheekbone and a hand slid across his stomach, underneath his t-shirt-

A guy fell to the ground and they practically jumped apart. Their eyes caught for a heated second before Derek’s burned molten and he pushed forward into the crowd. Stiles could barely see, lost in the smoke and the beat of his own heart. There was a scream, people finally noticing the paralyzed bodies at their feet. Stiles tried to follow the movement; a grating shriek pierced the air. He caught sight of Scott and followed, happy to be in fresh air, if not entirely thrilled to see a passed-out, naked Jackson. It was only moderately worse to have a passed-out, naked Jackson in the back of his car and having to (kind of) come out to his dad at a crime scene. Having his dad question him, question his motives and wonder if he could even trust him-

There was no worse hell than this one.

Except for stealing a police vehicle and being forced to put on pants on passed-out, naked Jackson.

“I’m going home.”

Scott gave him a look, like this was a weird request. “Uhh...”

“Do not give me ‘uhhhh,” Stiles snapped. It was closing in on three in the morning and he was perilously close to losing his shit. “I am gross. I am tired. I’m going to go home and sleep for however long and hopefully wake up from the nightmare that is my life. I will take the day shift while you’re at school but - BUT - I am now going home. Got it?”

Scott nodded, suitably chastised, and Stiles was happy to have the wherewithal to even drive himself home. His dad was still out at the crime scene, so he didn’t keep from using the front door. His nerves chafed beneath his skin, oversensitized, as he climbed the stairs, throwing his backpack on the floor before collapsing face-first onto his bed. The synapses firing in his brain were rapid-fire, without direction. It had him shutting his eyes against it, but there were just as many questions in the dark.

There was a soft scrape against the window sill, a sneaker catching on wood, and Stiles opened his eyes to stare at the wall.

“Are all werewolves naturally creepers? Is it part of the whole supernatural package? You know, order now, and you’ll get super strength, crazy sideburns, and an inability to listen to reason for just four orders of $19.99. Call in the next five minutes, and we’ll throw in the stalker tendencies for free!”

There was no response. Sighing, Stiles rolled over on his back, tilting his face to the window to face Derek. The werewolf was leaning against the windowsill and refusing to look anywhere but the floor.

“You know, dude, one of these days your face is gonna get stuck in a permanent glower,” Stiles warned, crossing his arms behind his head. “If that happened, you wouldn’t be able to scowl. Or snarl. Or frown. I know how devastated you would be if you couldn’t convey the full range of your emotional constipation-”

“Stiles.”

Just like that, he stopped. Stiles glanced at Derek out of the corner of his eye, but he was just as unmoving as before. Stiles rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to interrupt me, then you have to continue with what you were going to say. With words and everything. Because, as awesome as I am, I have yet to perfect _telepathy_ -”

“Did you mean it.”

The man’s inability to punctuate properly astounded him. “Mean what?”

Stiles watched Derek’s shoulders shift before becoming completely motionless again. Stiles doubted that anyone else knew that tell, how Derek was stock still when he was uncomfortable and his shoulders twitched when he wanted to escape. And, the only thing that made Derek want to run was his goddamn feelings.

Derek made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “What you said to Scott. Earlier,” he finally replied. “Did you mean it.”

The answer was yes, of course it was yes, but some small sadistic spark lit up inside him and Stiles didn’t want to let this be easy quite yet. “Which specific part are you referring to? Because, if it’s the part about you making astronomically shitty decisions, then yes, 100%, I meant the shit out of it.”

Derek snorted, finally looking at Stiles. “You’re really going to do this.”

“Yup.” He popped the ‘p’ for good measure.

The Alpha gave an eye roll of his own before his face became serious again, the air heavy with it. “About my intentions,” he murmured, “ and owing each other and defending me.”

The silence lingered before Stiles nodded. “Yeah,” he affirmed, almost to himself. “Yeah, I meant it.”

Once admitted, it was something he could never take back. It felt like more than words; it felt like a promise. A bond struck in silence and a shared glance.

“It’s been - ” Stiles turned away from the ceiling to look back at Derek as the wolf struggled with words. “It’s been a long time since... No one has... Not since Laura.”

Stiles sat up at that, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “You have your pack,” he began. “I’m sure that they - ”

“It’s different,” Derek interrupted, moving away from the window to shuffle restless in the middle of the room. “I’m the Alpha. I’m meant to protect them and, in return, I get their loyalty. But, I’m the one who keeps them safe, who defends them.”

“I thought packs protected each other,” Stiles countered, something sharp prickling his blood.

“They do.” Derek ran frustrated fingers through his hair. “But, they’re young and reckless and so fucking stupid sometimes - ”

“You’re the one who turned three teenagers - ”

“And, they think that everything is some sort of game - ”

“Without actually thinking it through, because Jackson? Really?”

“Even though I told them, _I told them_ , that there would be dangers - ”

“I guess Boyd’s not so bad though, he’ll stand by you - ”

“And, nothing is working the way I wanted it to - ”

“Because, God knows you need to be saved from your own martyr complex - ”

“Laura would have known, she should have been the one - ”

“Which is only outsized by your crippling guilt - ”

“She should have been Alpha - ”

“Over things that aren’t your fault - ”

“‘Cause I’m not worth it!”

The chorus of their voices cut off abruptly, no more than echoes in quiet room. His ears flooded with the sound of his heartbeat, and Stiles was nearly deafened by it. Derek was utterly still, eyes clenched shut, hands curled into fists. When he opened his eyes, Stiles’ breath caught in his chest at everything that gaze held.

Guilt and loathing and the ruins of his family, all turned to ash.

Stiles moved before he meant to, reaching out an open hand. “Come here,” he beckoned.

A long moment passed, then Derek moved forward, stopping just in front of Stiles, looming over him. The shadow of him had heat prickling at the back of his neck, but Stiles ignored it, instead reaching down to the cuff of his sleeve. He took a steadying breath, then pushed up the hoodie and the flannel underneath, exposing the bare skin of his arm. The scars weren’t ugly or ragged or huge, but even against his pale skin, the three neat lines stood out sharp.

When Derek’s breath hitched, Stiles knew he had seen them.

“It was after my mom died,” Stiles explained, his words trying to outrun the beat of his heart. “I was eleven years old and suddenly I didn’t have a mother anymore. Dad, he - he wasn’t taking it well. Who could blame him, really? She was the love of his life. Met in an airport on their way to different cities and ended up missing both of their flights. You just don’t recover from that, you just don’t.”

He paused; licked his lips. “He sort of... faded, you know? Even though he was still there, my dad was gone. All that was left was a ghost that had his face and smelled like Jack Daniels all the time.” The corner of his mouth twitched, a bitter smile. “And, I knew that’s not what Mom would have wanted. She would have wanted him to be taken care of. So, I did. I did the dishes and laundry and vacuumed and dusted. I made sure his uniform was ironed. I made sure he ate his vegetables. I couldn’t bring her back for him so I tried at least to be a good son.”

He must have closed his eyes, because when he opened them, Derek had knelt to the floor, their faces level. It made it unbearably intimate and somehow all the easier. “Something had to give,” he whispered. “I was cleaning my dad’s bathroom when I found his shaving kit. He was passed out in the living room and I was halfway to a panic attack - have you ever had one? It’s like you’re drowning and falling and your skin’s shrinking and you can tell yourself over and over again that you’re fine but your body won’t listen. I just - I didn’t want to wake him, you know? I didn’t want to bother him but I was on the edge of screaming and I needed to do something.”

The look on Derek’s face was utterly ruined. “Stiles - ”

“I found the razor and pushed up my sleeve and cut three times,” Stiles spit out, and it was like tar on his lips, bitter and so desperately needing to be purged. “The panic attack stopped and my dad kept sleeping. It was easy, then.”

A warm hand gripped his arm, nearly startling Stiles from the bed, but Derek held firm. His thumb was calloused and sweeping circles across the inner skin of Stiles’ elbow, brushing the scars there.

Stiles couldn’t stop now. “I made a kit in an old Iron Man lunch box and kept it under my bed. I never cut where people could see, too obvious. Hips, underarms, thighs, even managed my lower back once or twice. I made sure to clean them up, hydrogen peroxide and neosporin, but it didn’t always work. Some things are just meant to scar.”

He hadn’t even noticed his voice fading down to a whisper. Derek’s fingers were impossibly warm against his skin, like a brand, like ownership. He could barely stop the shudder at the thought.

Derek was staring at the crook of his elbow like it held all the answers. “When did you...?”

“About a year ago,” Stiles answered, even though the question was lost in silence. He had heard it anyway. “I was taking English and had rolled my sleeves up, not even thinking. Monica saw them and knew what they were. She had been a cutter too, you see. She stopped me after class, and I was at the Center that afternoon. Dr. Burton, she’s the head therapist there, she helped me through some things. A lot of things. Not just the ADD, but everything with my mom and... yeah. It was something I didn’t really know I needed.”

Derek’s shoulders were shaking, tiny shudders that slipped down his whole frame. Without even thinking, Stiles placed his other hand on the ball of his shoulder, his palm suddenly seared with heat. It had his stomach twisting into knots, but he simply couldn’t stop.

“That’s why I volunteer there,” Stiles explained, his thumb catching on Derek’s collarbone. “People don’t remember that kids can hurt too - can hurt so bad that it’s like drowning.”

There was a wet, wounded sound before Derek dropped his head, laying his forehead on Stiles thigh, his breath stuttering over his knee cap. The heat of him burned through his jeans and Stiles couldn’t have moved if the world was ending.

His hand snuck into Derek’s hair, scratching lightly across the scalp in soothing circles. “I just want to help you breathe, is all,” he murmured, knowing Derek could hear him.


	11. Salted Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the times for Derek to attempt sarcasm. “No,” Stiles replied. “I just want you to admit what this is.”
> 
> Derek snorted, rueful. Stiles felt an angry slew of words bubbling up in his throat when a strong hand twisted in his t-shirt, knuckles hot against his sternum even through the thin cotton. Stiles knew the wolf could hear his heartbeat thrumming, the blood rushing to his face.
> 
> “And what,” Derek bit out, “do you think this is?”
> 
> Chapter title: [Kidney Thieves - Before I'm Dead](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

Stiles hadn’t signed up for this. When Scott had turned, he figured it was something they could manage through the power of friendship or sheer stubborness. Even at its worst, with Lydia bleeding on the ground or the Alpha chasing them down, Stiles still held onto that thread. _We’ll get through this. We’ll make it._

He hadn’t counted on the his father’s eyes, the lines there cut even deeper with disappointment. It made his fingers twitch, like sharp electric impulses. His own Milgram project, racheting up the voltage until he would have no choice but to scream. Not that it would end. It was becoming painfully clear that this was only the beginning.

He watched as Mr. Whittemore continued to tear into his dad, pointing fingers and blame his way.

“What do we do now?” Scott murmured.

Stiles took a moment to think. “About Jackson?”

Scott nodded.

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted. “I mean, I’m still kinda for killing the guy. It would be easier.”

“C’mon, Stiles! I know you don’t mean it.”

Stiles said nothing, just glanced at the toes of his shoes. He wished he had that kind of optimism about his character. He knew Scott’s character was a relic from a different age, a stalwart knight that never questioned honor or goodness. Even in the face of blood and death, Scott still held firm on his principles, kept forging forward with words like “good” and “right” on his tongue, believing all the while that Stiles spoke the same language. Stiles knew better. He had the scars to prove it, had held a blade in his hands hungry to hurt, even if it was himself. It was easier to cover up his shadows with sarcasm than to admit to himself what he had known all along.

Maybe Peter was right. Maybe he would have made a better wolf. After all, he already was one.

“Look, we don’t have a lot of options,” Stiles continued. “Maybe if we can find out what caused Jackson to go Godzilla, we’ll have a better idea. If we ask Derek, maybe-”

“No!” Scott hissed, pulling Stiles in. “That is not an option.”

Stiles wanted to bare his teeth; he rolled his eyes instead. “I’m not saying that Derek is a fount of information, but at least he’s been a werewolf for longer than five minutes.”

A low growl emanated from Scott’s throat, his hand tightening for a moment before letting Stiles go. “We’re not telling Derek anything,” he ordered. “Got it?”

Arguing with Scott was like yelling at a brick wall. Lying to Scott, however, was a necessary evil. “Got it,” Stiles answered.

If possible, school was even more awkward having a restraining order in place. It was made slightly more bearable when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

_Why did I turn Isaac again? He used to be quiet - D_

_Because you have terrible taste in betas? - S_

_They weren’t all terrible - D_

_I don’t think Erica has worn a bra since her furry transformation - S_

It was true actually. Those bustiers left very little to the imagination, though Stiles couldn’t quite understand the practicality of it. Sure, awesome clubwear, but probably not good for any sort of physical activity. It was like Season One Buffy all over again.

_Why were you staring at Erica? - D_

Stiles looked down at his phone. Frowned.

_I don’t think staring is the right word. Trying really hard not to stare is a better description - S_

_What. Happened. - D_

And now, Derek was texting out full stops. Dude just couldn’t help himself.

_She threatened me, had an embarrassingly low cleave shot, then hit me with a part she ripped out of my own car. It didn’t exactly set the mood - S_

_Good. - D_

“Good?” Stiles mouthed, following behind Scott as they made their way to the library. Talking with Allison was somewhat helpful, at least as the far as the kanima was concerned. A Master was not something one could get at Target. There had to be a connection. There had to be a starting point. It was just a matter of finding out where.

Of course, everything had started with Derek.

What was even more disconcerting was talking to Lydia. Not the conversation, exactly. That was ultimately fruitless, as Lydia was not in any mind to give him any information whatsoever. Not that he blamed her. They were still keeping her in the dark, and she was too damn smart not to know that they were all hiding things from her. What was weird (and confusing and unsettling and strange) was being able to talk to her, hear that dulcet voice and smell that french shampoo she used, and not trip over his feet. His words were clear; his knees kept steady. Even after she left him eating her dust (metaphorically speaking), his hands were still. He had never been able to keep still around Lydia before.

Not that he could linger on it, with Erica pushing him into walls and - oh wow she was wearing a bra today, that’s a big step forward - and hinting at knowing Jackson’s parents.

“You know how they died?” He asked, rushing up next to her.

“Maybe,” she smirked. “If you’ll tell me why you’re so interested.”

He struggled for words, tried to come up with a lie. Erica stopped in her tracks and that stopped his tongue.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

“What?” He squeaked. “Who? Him who?”

It seemed that Erica was scarily intelligent beneath all that blonde hair and hypersexual energy. Too bad it got lost under the leather.

“You cannot tell Derek,” he asserted, following after her. _At least not before he got a chance too._ When Erica turned on him, facing him down with her accusations, forcing him to stare at his own part in her path, it made his stomach twist. He didn’t want more blame laid upon his shoulders; his mother was more than enough.

It was only when they were being led to detention that Stiles had enough time to get his phone out.

_Jackson’s the kanima. Try not to kill anyone yet. I’ll talk to you after detention. - S_

With Harris’ beady little eyes fixed on him, there was no chance to answer the continuous buzzing in his pocket. But there was plenty of opportunity to feel deeply uncomfortable with Matt staring at them from across the room. Not that Matt had done anything suspicious yet (except for check out Allison at every possible opportunity, but that wasn’t really evil material) but something about him made his skin too tight, made Stiles want to check over his shoulder. He couldn’t quite figure it out, kept circling around the answer. He just felt wrong, and that’s why it felt like he was right.

Of course, all of this would be moot if Jackson ended up killing all of them in a reptilian fit of rage. The warning across the chalkboard was clear, Erica’s seizure even moreso.

“Derek,” she breathed, ragged. “I need Derek.”

She kept muttering her Alpha’s name over and over, even when Stiles moved her into Scott’s arms. He grabbed his phone and dialed.

Ring. Ring. “Stiles, what the hell-”

“Erica’s having a seizure,” Stiles interrupted, leading the way out of the school, Scott close behind. “The kanima got her and the venom - it’s some sort of reaction - Jesus-”

“Get her to me,” Derek ordered. “The abandoned subway station across town. Go through the broken gate at the second entrance. Get here as soon as you can.”

“On our way.”

It was like he could feel her struggling for air inside his own chest, his lungs copying her movements. It was only when they slid their way into the station, Derek running toward them from the shadows, that Stiles was able to catch a breath. The horrible sound of bone snapping, Derek’s panicked face, Erica’s blood spilling out onto old newspaper as she screamed against his chest. Even in the aftermath, he kept her tight against him, feeling her breaths steady alongside his. His panic receded like the tide.

He was even a good enough sport to left the werewolves have their moment, keeping himself distracted by brushing Erica’s hair from her sleeping face. When Scott returned to the subway car, it was Derek who made the move forward.

“I’ll take her,” he said. “She needs to rest.”

Stiles nodded, helping Derek cradle her in his arms. They both stood up, making eye contact but saying nothing.

“C’mon Stiles,” Scott urged. “Let’s get out of here.”

After a moment, Stiles nodded. He followed Scott out, and he tried to pretend it was okay that Derek didn’t stop him.

*****

Stiles really didn’t care to be left out of the loop. Particularly when he was the one keeping that loop in tact to begin with. But, once again, the werewolves had to have their cool little club gatherings and decision without the human in tow. It’s not like he couldn’t have been helpful at the little information pow wow, what with everything he and his dad had figured out the day before.

“You don’t think you could have, I don’t know, invited me?” Stiles sniped even as he brushed his teeth. So what if Derek could hear everything on speakerphone? Served the asshole right. Plus, his mouth was now minty fresh.

“It wasn’t a thing,” Derek insisted. “We just we’re trying to figure out what Deaton knew.”

“Exactly my point,” he hissed, sneaking across the hall and back into his room. He made sure to lock the door before flopping onto his bed. “I’m the guru here. I’m the Google master. I should be included at info-sharing events. Especially because I’m usually the ones figuring out your shit before you do.”

“You’re not on that again, are you?”

“Oh, I’m totally on that,” Stiles huffed. “Scott’s been a werewolf for maybe five minutes, and you’ve been an Alpha for a freaking millisecond. I, on the other, have been a genius forever.”

The eye roll was nearly audible. “I think you’re exaggerating.”

“Am I, Derek? Am I really?”

There was a burst of quiet laughter and suddenly the tension cracked open, slipping out and onto the floor as if it had never been. It was suddenly easy again, Stiles chatting away about movies and history and television as Derek’s deadpan answers made him smile. The werewolf was secretly hilarious and Stiles was determined to keep that secret, tucked away for his eyes only. It didn’t seem like Derek had many opportunities to snark and snicker and actually outright laugh. Stiles was determined to give him every chance to do so. Even if that meant leaving his window open every night.

“I just can’t believe I have to wait until 2013 for the next Sherlock season to start filming,” Stiles complained, rubbing his stomach where his shirt had rucked up.

“Isn’t there a new one coming out on ABC or something?”

Stiles gasped in (mostly) faux horror. “That is pure blasphemy and I will hear no more talk of it. Benedict is THE Sherlock Holmes of the modern generation. And, there’s no way Lucy Liu could stand up to the pure badassery of Martin motherfucking Freeman.”

Derek snorted. “Alright, not trying to get you worked up over a T.V show again.”

“If this is a way to bring up our debate about the Doctor’s companions, you are still wrong and Rose is still the best. Amy Pond isn’t even in the same universe as Rose Tyler. Actually, that’s true. Cue sadness.”

“What does this have to do with Sherlock?”

“My point remains. Benedict is beyond amazing and no one can compare.” Stiles let loose a sigh, eyelids fluttering as a thought slid into his mouth. “Though Johnny Lee Miller is sex on a stick and I would not hesitate to tap that. Or for him to tap me. Mutual tapping to occur.”

The shocked silence would have been embarrassing if Stiles wasn’t already sleepy and beyond shame.

“Uhh.” Derek cleared his throat.

“What?” Stiles felt irritation curling up in his throat. “I thought we had previously established that I’m an equal opportunity kind of guy.”

His inner Monica squealed. God, he hated that the blue-haired pixie menace was always right.

When Derek didn’t answer, Stiles sighed heavily. “Look,” he began, “I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I’m not even really out because there’s nothing to be out about because labels are so fucking annoying and I am not a label, I am Stiles Stilinski, and if that bothers you, Derek, you can kindly fuck off.”

Sleep evaporated in the flare of temper, leaving the taste of ashes in his mouth. He felt shaken, unstable, like his nerve endings were crawling with spiders, his bones vibrating with frustration. God, he was so sick of this, of lying to Scott with every breath and his dad with every look and pretending that Derek hadn’t fallen apart in his arms on his bedroom floor. And he hated, _hated_ , pretending that his skin didn’t ache and his bones didn’t break and his blood didn’t nearly boil out of his veins every time he saw that (scowling face/seafoam eyes/stubbled jaw) name on his phone’s screen.

“It doesn’t bother me.” 

The tightness in his chest unfurled ever so slightly and Stiles couldn’t help the aborted swallow. 

“What?" 

Something rustled on the other end of the line, like the whisper of bedsheets over bare skin, and Stiles felt a blush sweep across his cheeks. 

“I mean,” Derek said after some time, “it doesn’t bother me. That you’re you. Whatever that is.” 

Stiles hadn’t realized he wanted that approval spoken out loud until this moment rushed over him. It was almost enough, almost everything he wanted to hear. 

He wasn’t one to push for more than what was offered. No matter how much he wanted to. 

“Besides.” Derek’s voice took on that cigarette huskiness and Stiles refused to shiver. “It would be rather hypocritical of me.” 

It was a good thing Stiles was lying down because he wasn’t entirely sure his muscles would resist gravity at this point. 

“Right,” he stuttered, ears still ringing. “T-that’s right, because-” 

“I am also an equal opportunity kind of guy.” 

Those words rang in his head even as they got off-topic, bickering back and forth until they said good night. He heard Derek's voice even as his hands slid down his belly, took his dick in hand. He had never done this before, never let himself imagine those long fingers and the scrap of stubble and that husky voice in his ear. It felt too intimate even now, alone in his room and covered in sweat. But, it didn’t stop him from fucking up into his fist, didn’t stop Derek’s name from pouring off his tongue. Salt burst in his mouth; he had bitten his lip. Precome slicked his hands and his spine arched, thighs spread and shaking. So close, he was _so close_. He could almost smell that forest-musk-smoke scent that was Derek's alone. Closing his eyes, he could almost feel the slip of teeth over his skin. Tightening his fist, he bared his throat, heard that cigarette voice whisper his name just before the _bite_ \- Stiles bit back a scream as he shook apart. 

He came down in waves, his stomach wet, his legs aching. When he opened his eyes, no one was there. Even his head was silent. 

He slept better that night than he had in years. 

It didn’t solve anything. His life was still in shambles, taken apart by supernatural forces beyond his control. Funny enough, even with the Kanima and the Argents and the confusing knot of emotions that was Derek Hale, it was goddamn Matt that was stepping all over his last fucking nerve. 

“Do you wanna know the truth, Matt?” Stiles quipped. “You’re little bump on the head is about-” he dropped to the ground “-this high on our list of problems, right now!” 

Even as non-threatening and utterly innocent Matt seemed... “I don’t like him,” Stiles muttered. 

Going to Deaton’s after school was beginning to become a regular thing, much to his chagrin. What was new was Deaton looking at him and holding out his hand. 

“This part is for you, Stiles.” 

The bottle of mountain ash was almost warm in his hands, a comfortable weight. 

“Think of it like gunpowder. It’s just powder until a spark ignites it.” 

Just a spark. 

“It can be pretty extraordinary what the force of your own will can accomplish." 

Until it catches fire. 

“You have to believe it.” 

Until everything burns. 

But, it was ice he felt when his father came home, star ripped from his chest, holster empty. It was the heaviness of guilt that threatened to crack his spine, crushing down on his shoulders. The ice splintered; tears burned cold at the corners of his eyes. He swallowed them down. 

“Are you okay?” 

Scott’s words snapped him out of his trance. He glanced over at his friend, his best friend. He managed a smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.” 

Scott didn’t hear the lie. He ran inside, leaving Stiles frozen on the pavement with ashes in his hand. _Be the spark._ He murmured it to himself as he circled the building, trying to find heat somewhere inside of him. All he could smell was winter, but he kept moving forward, ignoring the echoes of gunshots, refusing to wonder how Scott was doing, whether Derek was alright. 

_Be the spark._

Only a handful. He breathes in. Out. Remembers his mom’s laughter. Remembers his dad’s hand on his shoulder. Remembers Derek whispering his name. 

And, somehow, fire catches inside him, taking the last steps until the circle is complete. 

He is still burning when he confronts Jackson, keeping the two werewolves behind him as he steps forward. He kneels down, staring into that hideously blank face, the voice inside mangled with hate. 

“We are the ones killing murderers,” Jackson growled. 

Stiles glared into the monster wearing Jackson’s face. His heartbeat was steady. “Who did they murder?” 

“Me.” 

It was enough. It was _something_. Stiles felt the fear soaking through the room, Erica and Isaac near shaking with it. He pushed them forward and into the club, blocking them from the Kanima’s reach. 

“What do we do now?” Erica sobbed, clutching to his shoulder. 

“We follow the plan,” Stiles continued. He grabbed their wrists, pulling the two wolves close. “I’m going to find Derek. Go!” 

The blondes nodding, grabbing each other and running into the crowd. Stiles pushed forward and outside, waiting for Derek - shit - waiting for Scott. And, while it was good to know that it worked, that his force of will had created an actual freaking barrier against the supernatural, it meant that Isaac and Erica were trapped. It meant that Scott was in trouble. 

“Break it!” 

The fire went out. 

***** 

Stiles shivered as he made his way through the tunnels toward the abandoned subway car that the pack called home. He wasn’t sure which was worse, this or the charred remains of the Hale house, but both had that doom and gloom factor that screamed angst-filled creature of the night. Otherwise known as Derek Hale. 

He tugged his hoodie tighter around him, shoving his hands in his pockets as he entered the makeshift living area, empty but for shadows and a few empty soda cans. Jesus Christ, everything was fucked up. Allison’s mom, Lydia’s party, fucking Matt fucking Daehler. He knew that guy was pure evil. The puppies were probably off somewhere, causing mayhem no doubt. They certainly weren’t who he would have chosen to gift with supernatural strength and rage-control issues, because it wasn’t like they were exactly stable before the fangs and the instinct to maim and murder. Not that his opinion mattered in the least. 

“Derek?” He called out, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “Derek, you here?” 

No response, just his question fading into silence. 

“Seriously, dude,” Stiles groaned. “If you’re just creeping around for no reason. What am I saying? That’s standard Hale behavior.” 

He whirled around, ready to leave as quickly as possible, and nearly collided with Derek’s chest. 

“Jesus Christ!” He flailed backwards, heart stumbling in his ribcage. “I’m getting you a collar and a bell or something because my blood pressure is not going to survive this.” 

Derek glowered at him, though that was his default expression so it was hard to determine his opinion on the bell thing. “What do you want?” 

“We have got to work on your conversational skills. I’m something of a self-proclaimed expert in that area, if you weren’t aware, and I’d be happy to be your Yoda, young Padawan-” 

“The point, Stiles.” 

“I don’t know, maybe because everything is going horribly wrong?” Stiles tried again but to no avail, throwing his hands up in despair. “Let’s start with Allison’s mom.” 

Derek glanced away. “That wasn’t my fault.” 

“What, she slipped and fell into your teeth?” 

“She was killing Scott!” Derek snarled. “I’m sure he told you." 

And, that had hurt plenty, the idea of Scott struggling to breathe with wolfsbane clogging up his throat, all for loving a hunter's daughter. “Well, she’s dead,” Stiles replied. Derek’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “But, you didn’t know that.” 

Derek shook his head. “I didn’t-” he cut himself off. “She was trying to kill me too. I had no choice.” 

Honesty was raw in his voice. Stiles nodded. “I figured as much. But now, Allison is a mess and keeping real close to Gerard. That isn’t good news.” 

“I haven’t heard good news in six years,” Derek muttered. “What else is new?” 

“We figured out who the Kanima’s master is.” 

A breath later, Derek was in front of him, crowding his space like he had a right to be there. “Who?” 

Stiles tried to breathe like it wasn’t an issue. “Matt Daehler. He goes to our school. He’s killing off members of the 2006 swim team and we really don’t know why yet but it’s him.” 

Derek looked away, nodding to himself. “Well, then that’s easy. We kill him.” 

“No!” Stiles rocketed a quick jab at his shoulder. “Seriously, is murder always your first option?” 

“When the situation calls for it.” 

No wonder he kept getting arrested. “No one is getting murdered yet,” Stiles insisted. “Scott is coming over tomorrow and we’re going to tell my dad because, as Matt is a human, the law actually applies.” 

Derek gave him a narrowed look. “Does Scott even know you’re telling me this?” 

The floor was suddenly very interesting. That was answer enough, Derek sighing as he shuffled away, both of them caught up in their own thoughts. 

“I don’t like this,” Stiles muttered to himself. “I really, really hate this actually.” 

He couldn’t shake the feeling that the threads tying all this together were slowly fraying, impossibly fragile, and that at any moment one would snap and it would all fall apart. There were so many caught in that web, people that mattered, and Stiles didn’t want to see what would happen when the threads broke. And, he couldn’t shake the feeling that eyes were constantly on him, gauging his every move, and he waited by his open window every night and _goddammit_ he was pathetic. 

“It’s necessary,” Derek stated, as if Stiles didn’t already know. “The kanima-” 

“Look, I know, okay?” Stiles blurted out, suddenly beyond frustrated. Derek was glaring at him, jaw clenched and arms crossed over his chest, as impenetrable as ever. God, he wanted to wreck him, tear down the walls built out of blood and bone to see more than a glimpse of what lay beneath, and that destructive need burned in his veins, raging like the fire that had destroyed everything. 

Derek’s gaze flickered crimson, nostrils flaring, as if he could sense that urge like the scent of smoke. “I’ll contact you if anything comes up. You can show yourself out.” 

He turned, walking back into the shadows, and Stiles suddenly knew that this is all he would ever see of Derek, the taut line of his back as he walked away. As he left. 

“No.” 

Derek paused, twisting to look over his shoulder. “No?” 

Stiles shook his head, clenching his teeth to keep from shouting everything that was boiling in his mouth, and Derek’s gaze narrowed further. 

“I don’t think you have much of a choice.” 

“You’d be surprised.” 

“No, I don’t think I would be.” 

“For God’s sake, Derek!” Stiles ignored the way his voice cracked, the way panic surged through him through old, familiar pathways. “I’m tired of playing this game with you.” 

It wasn’t often that Stiles forgot how fast the wolf could move, as if he hadn’t moved at all, and he couldn’t help the way his breath hitched when Derek was just inches in front of him, radiating heat and irritation. 

“This. Is. Not. A. Game.” Derek snarled. “It never has been.” 

Adrenaline flooded him, urging him to fight or flight, but Stiles swallowed it down, keeping his hands and his eyes steady. “I never thought it was.” 

A muscle in Derek’s jaw relaxed, as if cut, and he seemed suddenly weary, resigned. He looked years older and not older at all and it was terrible to see. Stiles couldn’t look away. 

“What do you want, Stiles?” 

“I just want to stop pretending,” he said, curling his hands into fists, resisting temptation. “We act like we’re total strangers-” 

“We are.” 

“No, we are not,” Stiles fumed, finally giving in and grabbing hold of Derek’s jacket, knuckles white against the leather. “Not since you fell apart on my bedroom floor. Not since you made that first fucking phone call.” 

“Jesus, Stiles, what do you want me to say?” Derek growled, baring his teeth, condescension dripping off every syllable. “That we’re best friends now? That we’ll braid each other’s hair and make friendship bracelets and all that bullshit? Is that it?” 

Of all the times for Derek to attempt sarcasm. “No,” Stiles replied. “I just want you to admit what this is.” 

Derek snorted, rueful. Stiles felt an angry slew of words bubbling up in his throat when a strong hand twisted in his t-shirt, knuckles hot against his sternum even through the thin cotton. Stiles knew the wolf could hear his heartbeat thrumming, the blood rushing to his face. 

“And what,” Derek bit out, “do you think this is?” 

For a moment, time stilled, like an Ansel Adams picture caught in black and white. Words were abandoned in the wake of heat spiraling in his gut, the heady ache resonating in his bone marrow. Stiles had known, had always known, but it had always lingered at the edge of his senses, the periphery of his vision. There had been nothing he could say that could encompass everything tangled in his chest when he thought of this man, this sour-faced Alpha who kept him at an arm’s length while whispering secrets in his ear. 

His mouth suddenly felt too dry and Stiles watched Derek’s eyes flicker downwards when his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. Swallowing hard, he slowly unfurled his hand, sliding it up the leather until he curled his fingers into the jacket’s collar. 

“Is that what this is?” He murmured, and the way those eyes went Alpha-red was answer enough. 

His skin felt too sizes too tight and he knew his body was screaming with want, that he was practically vibrating. He was impossibly hard, pressing into the zipper of his jeans, and the ache was too much and not enough. His pores were soaked with it, scent drenched heavy, and he knew Derek could smell it. The thought made him even harder. 

Derek took a shuddering breath, swallowing as if he could taste it, and his eyes fluttered until they they were nearly shut. “Fuck, you’re infuriating,” he growled. “And nosy and stubborn and brilliant and so _fucking good_ -” 

Stiles pushed forward, closing that last distance, and he was kissing Derek Hale. 

The kiss lingered, uncertain and impossibly chaste, lips sliding together and breaths mingling. Every second of it was slow as honey, mouths clinging together sticky sweet. Derek tasted bittersweet and heady, like sipping warm whiskey, burning and addictive. And, for someone so hard, with sharp cheekbones and angled jaw and stony stare, Derek’s mouth was incredibly soft, with a firmness beneath that made Stiles want to nip just to see blood well to the surface. The thought made a half-sound well up in the back of his throat and suddenly Derek was slanting his mouth further, pressing open and inside as if to devour him. Tongues tangled together; teeth scraped his bottom lip. Stiles felt his skin burning where Derek’s stubble rubbed against his cheeks and it made him even hungrier for it. 

As suddenly as the kiss had begun, it took an eternity to end. The breaths between were longer, trying to regain steadiness, but someone always moved forward for that one last taste until their foreheads rested together and all was quiet. Stiles felt the lingering burn on his cheeks, his mouth swollen, and he had never felt so satisfied and yet so unfulfilled. There would never be enough kissing Derek, not ever, not as long as he existed. 

The fingers still knotted in his shirt tensed suddenly, and Stiles shook his head. 

“Don’t even think about it,” he murmured. 

A beat passed. “Think about what?” 

“Calling this a mistake or a fluke or whatever excuse you’re cooking in your head. No takebacks allowed. I forbid it.” 

“You forbid it?” It would have sounded like a warning, but there was a warmth beneath it that Stiles was sure only he could hear. He pulled back, eyes roaming over the sharp cheekbones, the reddened mouth (all his fault and God, he loved it), and despite the familiar scowl, he could see the edges of what might have been a smile twitching at the corners of Derek’s mouth. 

He couldn’t help the grin splitting his face. “Consider yourself forbid. Forbode? Forbodden? That can’t be the right conjugation-” 

“Stiles.” 

He stopped instantly, watched the corners of Derek’s mouth sink, his jaw setting itself in stone, and Stiles didn’t have to hear the words to know them. The glass cage of his ribs ran with spider cracks, threatening to tear apart the soft organs beneath, delicate as paper. 

Derek looked away, throat bobbing. “I can’t,” he whispered. 

Stiles closed his eyes, because as horrible as hearing it was, the look of devastation on Derek’s face was so much worse, had his skin screaming (for the comfort of a razor). He could only nod, letting his hand loose from the leather jacket and dropping it to his side. Derek released his shirt, fingers brushing against his chest, and the glass cracked further. 

“I should go.” His mouth was moving but someone else had to have been speaking, using his body like a living puppet. “I’ll keep you updated. Try to keep your pups in line, they tend to get stupid when they’re worked up, which is only all the time.” 

Stiles moved, walking out of the train car, the jagged edges of glass threatening to split the seams of his skin. 

“I’ll call you.” 

He stopped, whirled around to see the taut line of Derek’s back (but he wasn’t walking away this time and Stiles wasn’t sure that was better). 

“Is that a good idea?” It wasn’t - it so wasn’t - but it was something. Stiles knew pain, wore it well, had memorized it until it ran through him like veins, and he had suffered worse for less than this. 

Derek turned and his expression was horribly blank, wiped clean, but his eyes were like embers burning in the stark planes of his face. “No,” he replied, “it’s a terrible idea.” 

“Great - perfect - fine - glad we cleared that up-" 

“But, I need it,” Derek whispered, a confession in the darkness. “I need...” 

_(you)_

And suddenly, all the scars would be worth it, the tiny white lines that would hide beneath flesh marking paths that only they would know. Crawling on hands and knees through coals and needles, the fear and the loneliness, all the razors in the world would be nothing compared to Derek Hale needing him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But seriously, canon divergence ahead.


	12. The Moon that Breaks the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, Stiles was getting better at lying, at pretending that he wasn’t constantly thinking about the scowling werewolf, that he didn’t know what his mouth tasted like, that he wasn’t waiting for the phone to ring every night. And, that his dreams afterwards weren’t of stubble burn and bruises, sweat and salt and too-sharp teeth.
> 
> Chapter title: [Florence + The Machine - Howl](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

The tough part of convincing your policeman father that some random teenager with shitty hair was a homicidal maniac was the actual having proof part.

“Isn’t it obvious!” Stiles paused for dramatic effect. “Our swim team sucks!”

So, that might not have been the best response he had ever come up with in the heat of the moment. But, somehow it had his dad on the hook. He ignored the flicker of hurt in his chest with his dad’s disbelieving look, swallowing instead and pointing over his shoulder at Scott. It shouldn’t feel like betrayal that his dad still trusted Scott instead of him. He buried that, alongside the other refuse held in his chest, the disappointment and the failure and the “why couldn’t you be a good son?” All he could do was bury it, a grave circled in wolfsbane, and hope for rest.

Seeing the back of Matt’s head (seriously, it was rather distinctive) was at least a step forward. What was two more steps back was involving Mrs. McCall in their supernatural shenanigans. Again. At least there was no murderous Casanova Alpha dickbag this time. But, the evidence was piling up: Matt at the hospital, his shoes, the garage receipt. For once since this whole mess began, things were finally settling into place.

He smelled the blood before he saw her. He recognized it now, knew that bright scent of iron and salt. Stiles didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want that creeping realization to come to full awareness. Seeing the deputy (she used to make him paper cranes as a kid, waiting for his dad to get off-shift) and her open, dead eyes was more of a punch to the gut than turning around to a gun in his face.

“Hey, Matt.”

“Stiles,” he greeted, half-smiling. “I can’t say I’m terribly surprised to see you here.”

“I can’t say I’m terribly surprised that you’re a psychopath, but hey, you don’t exactly give off a well-adjusted vibe,” Stiles replied. It probably wasn’t a good idea to poke the crazy Kanima kid, but his mouth didn’t seem fazed by imminent death.

Matt just continued almost smiling before waving the gun back toward the offices. “I think it’s time I have a chat with your father, don’t you think?”

Even as his feet moved forward, Stiles couldn’t stop his eyes narrowing, his jaw tense. “You hurt him, and I’ll kill you.”

That managed to wring out a laugh. “Already at empty threats?”

Stiles moved into the hall, feeling the gun pressed between his shoulder blades. He didn’t respond to Matt’s prompting, remained stubbornly silent. If Matt wanted to think his threats were empty, that was on him. Stiles was more interested in getting his father out alive than seeing Matt dead. Though, there would be something incredibly satisfying in having both for the price of one.

Handcuffing his dad in a jail cell had the tension in his shoulders unwind, just slightly. If his dad was locked in a cell, then he was safe from Jackson. He tightened the cuff at Matt’s request, giving him more time to lightly tap his fingers against his dad’s wrists, the rhythm of Morse code against his skin.

I W I L L B E O K

He did his best not to look back as Matt led them out of the room. He did his best not to recoil at the ripped open chests of the officers in the hallways, guys he had known his whole life, who had helped raise him in the station when his dad was on-duty. Joe had even taken him to a few ball games after his mom had died, when his dad was too swamped with work (grief) to take care of him. He swallowed and kept walking.

Destroying the evidence was the last pressure point to keeping silent.

“So, Matt, since all the people you brutally murdered deserved it because they killed you first, whatever that means,” he barely managed not to roll his eyes, “we’re good here, right?”

All he wanted was to get his dad home, alive and unscathed. He wanted Scott to be whole and healthy, even with the benefit of super healing. He wanted to live to graduation. Was that so much to ask?

The flash of headlights across the wall had his stomach sinking low.

“If you don’t move now,” Matt warned, still smiling, “I’m gonna kill Stiles first. And then your mom.”

The door seemed larger knowing that a life behind it was going to be cut short.

“Open it.”

When Stiles saw Derek’s face, slack, expressionless, he knew instantly that something was wrong. Even with his pulse skyrocketing, the heady mix of hope and fear that seemed to be all he felt nowadays, he knew something was wrong. It took everything he had not to jump forward when Derek fell, revealing a scaly Jackson behind him. It took everything to stay still rather than make sure he was okay.

“Roll him over,” Matt ordered, glancing at Stiles. “The tile can’t be comfortable.”

Stiles did as he was told, finally given an order that he was moderately okay with, and knelt down beside the prone form of the Alpha. He dug his fingers into shoulder, squeezing slightly - _I’m okay_. He felt rather than heard Derek’s breath release at that, and without a word he pulled him onto his back. Derek’s eyes ran over his face, as if all his wounds would be visible there. Stiles gave the bared shake of his head, his lips twitching upwards, before standing up and moving back. Matt moved over Derek, peering down at him like a particularly fascinating museum specimen, and Stiles ached to have a gun in his hands.

“This is the one controlling him.” Even paralyzed with death just a few feet away, Derek couldn’t help but be an asshole. “This kid.”

Matt seemed to take offense at Derek. Then again, Matt seemed to take offense at everything.

“Except for you, Stiles,” Matt leered at him. “What do you turn into?”

“Abominable snowman. But, it’s more of a wintertime thing. You know, seasonal.”

The claws cutting into the back of his neck barely registered before crippling numbness shredded through his body. Stiles fell like a puppet with strings cut, right on top of everybody’s favorite Alpha. At least, he stuck the landing. He felt Derek’s chest beneath his, the panicked breaths that he was managing to hide, his pulse raging fast beneath Stiles’ cheek. The last time he had been this close to Derek, the wolf had been drinking down his whimpers and giving him stubble burn on his cheeks. At least he was close enough to whisper in his ear without even Scott hearing.

“I’m okay,” he breathed. “He’s got my dad, Derek. I need to get my dad.”

Stiles felt Derek’s jaw shift, before he growled, “Get. Him. Off. Me.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Derek.” Stiles felt Matt hovering above him, his skin screaming at the proximity. “I think you two make a pretty good pair.”

Stiles felt something cold snap in his chest. It felt ridiculous that, despite the threat of the kanima, despite his dad alone and vulnerable in the cell, he couldn’t help the cold rage at Matt’s casual words. It felt like Matt’s grimy, bloodstained hands were touching something he had _no right_ to touch, because whatever Derek and Stiles were was _theirs_ and no one else’s.

He felt Derek’s jaw clench, the rest of Matt’s monologue lost amid the knowledge that Derek was just as furious, for all that he could do nothing about it.

“I still have some teeth,” Derek snarled. “You should come a little closer, see how helpless I am.”

Stiles couldn’t help himself. “Yeah, _bitch_.”

More headlights smearing across the walls, more threats from Matt. Except this time, Stiles was dragged off Derek and felt his lungs spasm as Matt’s boot pushed down against his ribs. It was like a panic attack, only it was real, what his body was protesting against was real. He gasped for air, the pressure in his throat rising, eyes burning with tears. When Matt moved, leaving his chest free to expand, the panic was still there, still clinging to his blood and threatening to pull him down again.

Having Jackson drag him and Derek into the side office at least gave him perspective. Jackson was not home right now, half lizarded out and staring into space, so when he went to stand in the entrance way, Stiles was finally able to look at Derek.

“Are you okay?”

“Except for being paralyzed, you mean?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Don’t be such a drama-wolf. I’m merely inquiring-”

“Shut up, Stiles!” Derek’s whisper was nearly subsonic, low and vehement. “Shut up and stop pretending you’re okay! Stop trying to make me laugh and forget how you were choking not two fucking minutes ago!”

Stiles throat clicked. He didn’t know what to say to that. It’s not that he wasn’t worried about his safety, because he most certainly was, but it was like background noise to him. He couldn’t focus on himself when there was his dad, and Scott, and Mrs. McCall, and Derek. Derek, who was glaring up at the ceiling like it had personally offended him.

“I’m sorry.” It seemed to be the only thing to say.

He felt Derek’s fury ease, like warmth leeched from his skin. “I’m fine,” he whispered. “I was looking for you and Scott, trying to make things right, when I followed your scent here. I figured where you were, Scott wouldn’t be far. When I smelled the blood… I didn’t even check to see what was behind me.”

“You-” Words tangled up in his mouth. “You were worried about me.”

This is the part where Derek would look away, roll his eyes, brush away the words with a scowl and a hasty departure. With the paralysis still holding him in his grip, Derek couldn’t do any of those things.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I was worried.”

It said something about Stiles’ state of mind that, despite being partially suffocated earlier, this was the moment that had him forgetting to breathe. He would have said something, anything, except a gunshot rang out and he heard Mrs. McCall scream and fear, overwhelming, terrible fear, gripped his lungs-

“It’s Scott,” Derek blurted out. “Matt shot Scott.”

How horrible was it that Stiles felt relief at that?

“We have to do something,” Stiles hissed, the fury from earlier surging back into his blood. “Fucking Matt Daehler. I want to rip his throat out. With my teeth.”

There was an abrupt snort from his left, and suddenly the two of them were laughing quietly, giddy with adrenaline and nowhere to go. It felt like relief, even with death standing silent and still at the doorway. It felt like, somehow, everything was going to be okay.

“I’ll let you do the honors,” Derek said, after their laughter had died down.

“I don’t know,” Stiles hedged. “My teeth aren’t really that sharp. I much rather shoot him. That I can easily do.”

“Umm. Really?”

Stiles glared at him out of the corner of his eye. “I’m the son of the town sheriff. You think I don’t know my way around firearms?”

“I figured you were more research-oriented,” Derek huffed.

“So I’m a genius tactician and planner that’s also an expert marksman. Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I’m helpless.”

“... I’m getting that.”

The conversation came to an abrupt close when Matt came stalking back into the room, a bleeding Scott with him. Stiles couldn’t help the look shared with Derek about the bestiary. He definitely couldn’t help the mouth gaping when he saw the scales crawling along Matt’s side. That was a seriously awful case of supernatural eczema. The conversation with Derek at least cleared up a few things, though seeing Derek’s claws shoved into his skin wasn’t exactly pleasant. As was the realization that it wasn’t helping.

Of course, that’s when the lights went out. And, all the bullets tearing through the walls.

“Shit!” Stiles felt fear claw up his throat again, desperate to move but unable to. “Shit, what is that?”

“The Argents,” Derek answered. He was beginning to twitch, as if needles were pricking under his skin. The venom was finally beginning to wear off. “We need to get you out of here.”

“What about you?”

Derek groaned, his hand jerking up. “I’ll figure out something.”

“They’ll kill you!” Stiles was able to turn his head, staring at the wolf struggling to move. “They won’t ask questions, not even like this, they’ll just kill you.”

Derek turned to him then, eyes searching his face. Stiles couldn’t remember if he had ever seen Derek this open, his jaw slack, his eyes wide. With a growl, lips brushed against his, so fast that it didn’t seem real. “Just don’t get dead,” Derek gritted out. “You hear me? You get killed and I’ll be so fucking pissed.”

It was that moment that Scott crashed into the room, like the hero that he was.

“Take him! Go!”

Arms moved around him, dragging him to his feet. Stiles looked back, Derek slowly getting to his feet, but then smoke smeared across his vision and they were moving. Jackson was behind them until suddenly he wasn’t, the door bolted behind. And, all that was left for Stiles to do was wait.

Yeah, fuck that.

Crawling across the floor was probably the most difficult thing Stiles had ever done. Panic gripping his throat, fear clogging his veins, every muscle dampened with venom, it felt like victory just pulling himself down the hallway until he could peer around the corner. His dad’s struggle had echoed with him, hearing the pain like it was his own, even amidst the smoke and chaos that loomed just out of reach. He heard the dull crack of metal against skull, saw his dad crash to the floor. He choked, fingers reaching forward. Reaching-

*****

Stiles was recounting the cracks on his ceiling when his phone began to ring.

_drag my teeth across your chest and taste your beating heart_

He ignored the too-familiar twist low in his abdomen and accepted the call.

“Hey,” he drawled, a yawn clinging to his voice.

“Hey.”

Stiles sighed, the routine set nearly in stone by now. He had a part to play now and he played it well. “You ever seen _The Godfather_? Because I honestly don’t understand the appeal.”

And, that’s how things worked. In daylight, they were all still dealing with the aftermath of what happened at the police station. They had found Matt’s body the next day, waterlogged and wet, and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty. He had required visits to the school counselor now, ones that he filled with monotone words and requisite phrases (I’m fine). The truth was out, or some version of the truth, where Matt was still a raging, violent, vengeful psychopath, even without the reptilian creature doing his bidding. Even without Jackson, Matt would have been a murderer. It would have just been a different weapon.

His dad was sheriff again, but the distance between them was just as far, even with a gold star once again emblazoned on his chest. The distrust was still there, even after seeing his son with a gun pointed at his head. All of his efforts to keep his dad safe were hidden in the dark, and, if Stiles had his way, his dad would never know. Even if it cost him his dad’s trust. Even if his dad remained wary and half a stranger, he would still be alive. Stiles took that as a blessing, even if it hurt.

He still didn’t know all the details from Scott. He knew that Mrs. McCall had seen him, seen her son with fangs and yellow eyes blazing. He knew that she was afraid of her own child, and that was even worse that what Stiles and his dad were going through. And, Scott wouldn’t even talk about Allison, other than to mention that she had been there. But, Stiles had seen her around school, drenched in black with new callouses on her hands. He had the same ones, after all, the recoil of a handgun leaving behind its mark even when you knew how to handle it.

Ms. Morrell called it hypervigilance. Stiles called it the calm before the storm.

Strangely enough, it was different at night. It was at night, between laying awake on his bed and scouring the internet, that his phone would ring.

With the safety of a phone line between them, Derek would call and Stiles would always, always answer. They didn’t talk about Scott, or the Argents, or the threat of the Kanima. They didn’t talk about the police station, lying on top of each other, the paralysis eating at their limbs. Stiles pretended he didn’t know how Derek’s heart felt beneath his cheek.

Instead, they talked about their first days at school, where they had always wanted to travel, whether or not the new Mumford & Sons album would compare to the first. And, Stiles was getting better at lying, at pretending that he wasn’t constantly thinking about the scowling werewolf, that he didn’t know what his mouth tasted like, that he wasn’t waiting for the phone to ring every night. And, that his dreams afterwards weren’t of stubble burn and bruises, sweat and salt and too-sharp teeth.

“How do werewolves even get tattoos?” Stiles asked, yawning. “Doesn’t the instant heal factor make that impossible?”

“It’s… unpleasant.”

“Then, why did you get one?”

“I needed to.”

“Wow. That certainly cleared things up.”

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

Stiles stopped, forcing in a ragged breath. This was not how they did things. This was not how they worked. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

“What do you want me to say, Derek?” Stiles snapped. “That, in the wake of nearly being murdered, of my dad not able to look at me, of Gerard Argent and his band of merry men inches from killing you or Scott at any given moment, that I’m peachy keen? Is that what you want to hear?”

“I just-”

“Shut the fuck up,” Stiles hissed. He didn’t know where this rage was coming from, coiling in his stomach and burning his bones, but it made his vision sear red and his teeth itch. 

“You don’t get to talk to me about being okay. You’re the one that’s being hunted, whose family was murdered, who can’t catch a fucking break for one fucking day, and you ask me if I’m okay?”

There was silence on the other end. It took a moment for Stiles to collapse, his fury fizzling out like it hadn’t even existed. “I’m sorry, man. I shouldn’t have said all of that. Just forget it-”

“No.” The whisper was a punch to the gut. “You’re right. I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay in a really long time.”

“... Derek-”

“But, I feel close to okay when… I feel okay when you’re here.” Stiles could barely hear the rustling of sheets above the sound of his heartbeat. “You make me feel like things will be okay. Even when they’re not.”

“I…” Stiles trailed off, at a loss for words for the first time in his life.

“I don’t know why,” Derek continued, as if Stiles hadn’t said anything. “I don’t know how you do it. You’re such a mess-” there was soft burst of laughter “-and a spaz and fucking annoying when you want to be. You irritate the shit out of me, and you do it on purpose. And, I don’t know why I like it.”

“You do?” The question was fragile, a breath of something Stiles didn’t want to name.

“Yeah,” Derek answered. “I do.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

There was silence again, and Stiles knew what that meant. Knew that Derek wasn’t going to do anything, just stay still while grief and rage and regret ate at him until nothing was left. Denial was Derek’s favorite game, and Stiles was tired of playing it.

“I’d like you to,” Stiles said instead, filling up the quiet spaces where they breathed. “I’d like you to do something about it.”

“Stiles-”

“That was my first kiss, you know,” he interrupted, refusing to hear Derek’s rejections, his excuses. “I was saving it for Lydia, actually. Not that it would ever happen, but I felt that it would be some weird proof of my affections, that I kept my first kiss for her.”

Stiles didn’t remember the last time he wanted to kiss Lydia Martin. He hadn’t even noticed when that was gone.

“But, then you happened,” Stiles continued, his fingers painting triskele patterns on his stomach where his shirt rucked up. “You, with your stupid hair gel and inability to communicate effectively and your unrelenting martyr complex. You showed up and I kissed you instead.”

“I know. I was there.”

Stiles couldn’t help the bubble of laughter welling up. “Yeah, you were. You were always there and even now, when things have gone to hell, you’re still there. And, so am I.”

“Stiles-”

“If you want me.” Stiles could barely speak the words. “Do you still want me?”

There was a shuddering breath. “I want…” Derek’s voice was low, hesitant. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

Stiles’ pulse was thundering in his ears, so loud he was sure Derek could hear it all the way across town, where he was whispering in his ear and pulling at his sheets and Derek was going to wreck him so thoroughly that there would be nothing left. Stiles bit his lip, the pain bright and sharp, trying to clear his head. His fingers though, which had been idly tracing patterns on his belly button, were beginning to slide lower, spirals of heat trailing along his skin. He knew he shouldn’t, that this was a line he couldn’t cross, but they had been toeing this line for months and to know that Derek was just on the other end of this phone line had his head spinning and his mouth watering at the thought.

“Stiles?”

It was all he could do not to whimper, gritting his teeth to keep himself grounded in reality, despite his wayward hand playing with the edge of his boxers while the other tightened around the phone.

“Stiles.” Less of a question this time. Instead, it felt like a warning and Stiles didn’t know what that said about him that his blood heated further. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” The automatic response burst from him. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Liar.” And the word was like a caress, the skimming of claws along his spine. God, he was so fucked for anything resembling normal, but who wanted normal when there was Derek Hale?

“Yeah,” Stiles allowed, sucking in a breath. “I may be a liar, but I’m not ignoring this. That’s all you.”

“What if I don’t want to ignore it?”

Stiles did whimper then, the sound escaping behind clenched teeth, and when Derek’s answering growl rumbled in his ear he nearly came right then.

“No.” Because, Stiles was all-or-nothing. He wasn’t going to have this halfway, wasn’t going to keep secrets just because it might hurt less later. Stiles was possessive to the point of obsession, was passionate to the point of stupidity, was loyal to the point of dying, but he wasn’t a coward. “You can’t have this both ways, Derek. You can’t kiss me and turn me away and expect me to forget it happened. You can’t tease me like this in the dark where it’s safe only to ignore it in the morning. That’s not fucking fair, Derek.”

Despite his words, Stiles’ fingertips were tracing patterns on his inner thigh, his breath hitching when they brushed against the hardness there. Derek snarled, the sound bristling with frustration, and Stiles was so ruined for the non-werewolf.

“I know,” Derek scowled, rumbling low. “I know that and I don’t know what to do because - Jesus, Stiles - you’re so young and everything is such a goddamned mess but I can’t get your scent out of my head and-”

“My scent?” Even in the midst of a Derek-induced sexual haze, curiosity still got the better of him. “I have a scent?”

The eye roll was nearly audible. “Everyone has a scent, Stiles.”

“You know what I mean.” Stiles had never heard his voice like this, husky and quiet, like a whispered promise. “What do I smell like?”

Derek hesitated, obviously reluctant. Stiles let his thumb press against the jut of his hip, his breath shaky as he imagined longer, thicker fingers there, and when he heard Derek’s shuddering gasp he knew he had him.

“It’s hard to describe.” Derek spoke as if he were choking on the words. “Warm and clean. Like cinnamon. Like pack.”

There was nothing but darkness and the sound of Derek’s voice. Stiles could not stop his hand digging his nails into his inner thigh just before pushing down his boxers and gripping his cock.

“And sex.” Derek growled around the word, and Stiles’ hand began to move. “God, you reek of it. You smell like heat and cum and desperation. It’s fucking obscene.”

Precome was beading at the tip, smearing down the length as his hand slid through it, slickening his grip. He circled his palm around the head and made a strangled sound at the back of his throat.

Derek rumbled low in his ear. “I can hear what you’re doing.”

Stiles gasped, and he was suddenly very done with being quiet. “Fuck, Derek,” he whimpered, fist tightening on the upstroke. “I smell like that because of you, you bastard. You look like my own personal wet dream and then you throw me against the nearest available surface and I nearly cream my pants because you could take me so easily and I would let you, you asshole, I would _beg_ for it.”

Stiles could hear the soft snarls, the hot pants of air, and he knew Derek was doing the same thing. And, there was no way he wasn’t going to take advantage of this.

“God, the things I’ve thought about,” he murmured, thumb slipping along the wet slit. “Thought about your hands, Christ, your fucking hands. Thought about your fingers in my mouth, sucking on them until I nearly gag. Thought about them digging into my hips. I bruise easy, you know? I’d be marked for days.”

A growl ripped through their shared breaths, vibrating down to his bones, heady with the overwrought need to possess. He knew that’s what made Derek’s voice twist inhuman, dip into subsonic volume. And the thought of Derek possessing him, marking him with hands and teeth and-

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Stiles teased, almost smiling. His wrist was aching but it just added to the sensations, his fingers tracing wayward patterns on his frenulum. “To see the evidence of what you’d done.”

Derek choked back a groan and Stiles could almost hear the slick-wet sounds beneath the noise. “And... what would that be? What would I do to you?” His question was goading, a challenge that Stiles had never been able to refuse. Not from Derek.

“You’d be a tease, that’s what you would do,” Stiles moaned, but it was heated with snark. “Because you like seeing me squirm, you sadistic prick.”

“I do.” Derek was quick to agree, as if the words were pushing past his teeth, utterly beyond his control. “I love it - I love… And you react - _fuck_ \- every time. I wonder how you would move, how you would sound if my teeth - if my hands… I want to breathe in your scent as I swallow you down and taste how much you want me.”

Stiles mewled at the thought, his world reduced to animal instinct and the voice in his ear. With an impatient noise, he put the phone on speaker, letting it rest on the pillow beside his head before turning over onto his knees. Forehead resting against the headboard, he reached over into his bedside table to the half-used bottle of lube. The pump-style bottle was useful for exactly this reason as he slathered his palm with slick. Fingers sufficiently wet, he stopped his stroking to let his hand slip past his perineum, only hesitating for a moment before pressing a finger inside.

“Fuck!” The burn was familiar, like the few times he had done this before, but even just up to the second knuckle and his thighs were shaking.

There was a silent beat. “Are you...?”

“Yes,” Stiles sighed, the word ripped out of his lungs on a honeyed breath. He pushed in as far as he could go, the angle of his wrist not quite right, but he could spin circles right beneath where he wanted to reach and it was making his gut twist. “I don’t do this often, you know, it takes prep and time and my fingers are not quite long enough to reach but fuck it’s good and I can pretend, imagine that it’s...”

His voice dissolved into a whimper, pushing in a second finger and beginning to stroke his cock in time. “Your hands are bigger,” he whispered. “Your hands are bigger and I bet you could make me come from your fingers alone.”

“I could,” Derek promised and Stiles could hear him slick in his fist and it made him push back on his fingers even harder. “I would stretch you so fucking wide - I would fuck you until you blacked out and I’d lick you clean as you came to.”

“Tell me,” Stiles begged, too far gone for words now, the tell-tale heat beginning to spiral low in his abdomen. “Tell me. Please, Derek.”

“I want to open you up. I want to watch you swallow up my fingers - so tight, I bet you’re so fucking tight - until you’re a wreck, a fucking mess. And then I’m going to push inside you - bottom out, _Jesus Christ_ \- I wanna hear you scream for it.”

Noises were bubbling in his throat, garbled half-sounds and gasps that boiled over as he twisted his fingers inside him, jerked himself just a little bit faster. So close - fuck - he was so close.

“Will you scream for me, Stiles?” And all the while Derek’s voice pushed him further and further, sparks igniting his veins and his spine arching like a bow. “Will you scream for me when you come?”

“Anything, I’ll - Derek, _please_ \- just let me-"

“Now.”

Stiles bit his lip as his orgasm slammed into him, his bones melting and fire turning him inside out so good it hurt. His whole body shook with it, prostate aching and cock pulsing with the force of it, shooting out onto his sheets. His mind shorted out into white noise, limbs shaking as his knees slid out, slumping onto the mattress. It was only then that Stiles remembered the phone next to his ear, heard the desperate noises coming from it.

“Fuck.” Derek’s words were low and wrecked, the sound of him fucking into his fist making Stiles’ breath hitch. “Fuck, I wish I could smell you right now - taste you. The noises you made - Christ - could listen to you all day, wanna make you sound like that all day-”

“Derek,” Stiles murmured, and his dick jumped even now to hear his own voice, rough and fucked-out. “I want you to - I need you to-”

There was a choked groan, utterly wrecked, and Stiles listened to Derek come. He was making these shuddery little gasps, whimpering at the back of his throat, and Stiles would never get those sounds out of his head, would hear them in noise and in silence.

He listened to Derek come down, his breaths evening out until he was quiet again. Rolling onto his back, Stiles reached a wobbly hand beneath the pillow, grabbing the old t-shirt and sliding it through the sweat and cum beginning to dry on his stomach before tossing it aside. Their breathing tangled together in the phone line and it was like he could hear the words before Derek had even scrounged up the courage to say them and he was not having it.

“No.”

“... What?”

“No, this was not a mistake. This was not an accident. We won’t let it fuck with the day-to-day because, honestly, we have more to worry about right now that getting off, but I will not let you feel guilty about this. If you even think about having a massive brooding angst-fest about it I will replace your music with One Direction and throw away all your hair gel. Don’t think I won’t.”

“... Okay,” Derek murmured, soft and light. “I won’t.”

Stiles yawned, lashes fluttering to his cheeks. “Good. Not that brooding is a bad look for you. But, smiling is good. You should invest. But, maybe only for me. I’m selfish like that.”

“I can manage that.”

“You better,” Stiles mumbled. “I’m a terror when I don’t get my way. I want to hoard your smiles for myself. Or you. Yeah, I want to hoard you and keep you and play with your stupid hair and make you smile all the time.”

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Go to sleep.”

Stiles wasn’t even awake to hear the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long hiatus! I was out of town to a ridiculous degree, but I'm back and I am writing the last chapter as we speak (type?). Here is the sexual content that was tagged at the very beginning of this story. I hope it meets your expectations!


	13. Leaving Blisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My family,” Derek whispered. “I was the one who got them killed.”
> 
> “It wasn’t you,” Stiles insisted, tightening his fingers against the jut of Derek’s collarbones. “It was Kate Argent, she-”
> 
> “She was my first, you know.”
> 
> Chapter title: [ZZ Ward - Lil Darlin](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

It said something about the past couple of weeks that a boot on his windowsill no longer made him flinch. Instead, a warm flush of heat flooded his stomach, made his mouth water. Even out of the corner of his eye, Stiles could see Derek hesitating at the window, his feet shuffling where he stood. He would have called it adorable, for all that a scruffy werewolf ex-police suspect with a martyr complex can be adorable.

“There’s something I haven’t told you.”

“Hello to you too, Derek.”

Stiles yanked at the strings of his crosse, tightening them even further. He needed to keep his fingers busy. They shook if they weren’t.

“Something… happened the other night.”

Stiles’ fingers stopped. He looked up to see Derek avoiding his gaze, and the heat in his belly turned sickly and sour. “Okay,” he allowed. “Is it a something like you made out with someone and it’s like cheating but not really or a something like you may have murdered a bus full of school children and you need help hiding the bodies?”

The fact that Derek’s mouth twitched slightly did little to ease Stiles’ nerves. “I haven’t kissed anyone but you in six years.”

Stiles blinked once. Then again. Blinking was the more attractive alternative to gaping. “R-really? I mean, no one tried to hit-” he waved his hands at Derek “-that?”

“You just gestured to all of me.”

“I will come back to the adorable movie reference after we’ve cleared this up,” Stiles continued, “but right now I’m just amazed that you exiled yourself from the kiss-having and apparently broke your six-year vow of chastity or whatever with my mouth.”

Derek’s eyes, which had been staring off into nothingness, suddenly flared red as he glanced at said mouth in question. His body’s response, all sugary heat, was so potent even Stiles could smell it.

He gulped. “We’re getting wildly off topic. Since you answered the first part of the question, is this a murder thing?”

Just like that, Derek’s gaze shot downwards again. Ice slammed into Stiles’ chest; his veins frosted over. Before he could say anything, Derek was moving, suddenly just a breath in front of him. A hand latched onto his shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Stiles,” Derek began, “no one’s dead.”

The sigh that fell out of him was heavy with relief. “Oh, thank God-”

“Peter’s alive.”

His hands were trembling again; the lacrosse stick clattered to the floor. “What did you say?”

There was a sharp whimpering sound, and Derek was pushing against him, forcing him to his feet until the back of his heels hit the bed. Once sitting, Derek took that as permission, knees buckling to the floor and arms wrapped around his waist. It was like an echo of that night before, but Derek wasn’t reserved this time, just barely under control. This time he was snatching what comfort he could, his hands digging into Stiles’ shoulder blades, his forehead pressed against his diaphragm. Ragged breath skittered across his stomach, and Stiles found his hands in Derek’s hair, as if he could calm him through his fingertips alone.

“Lydia,” Derek’s voice was strung-out with stress, “she did some spell; I don’t think she meant to. But, the spell needed my blood and Peter’s alive again. I didn’t - I didn’t know what to do. And, now Erica and Boyd are gone and Peter-”

“Erica and Boyd?” Stiles interrupted. “Are… Are they…?”

Derek shook his head, shuddering. “They left me.”

Those words seemed to come awake under Derek’s skin, because suddenly he was gone, halfway across the room with his head in his hands. Stiles couldn’t even move, just watched the werewolf curled into himself against the wall, claws raking his shoulders.

“I couldn’t protect them,” Derek admitted, eyes glowing red. “I’m their Alpha and I couldn’t protect them. That’s why they left.”

“Derek,” Stiles whispered.

There was no reply, just a low growl trembling through the silence. Derek straightened, clenched his fists at his sides, but tension was strung along his jaw, his shoulders a blunt line. Slowly, Stiles stood, his eyes focused on the Alpha and the way his fangs were tearing into his bottom lip, healing moments later just to rip open again.

“I haven’t seen Isaac, either,” Derek laughed. It was a broken, wet sound. “I’m sure he’s gone too. And, why wouldn’t he go? I’m the worst - fuck - Peter did a better job than I did.”

“Are you serious?” The bite of temper snapped in Stiles’ throat. “Peter murdered a half a dozen people, let you almost take the fall for it, I mean - Jesus, Derek - he killed your sister! That’s not good Alpha material!”

A sharp crack echoed in the small room. Derek’s fist uncurled in the imprint it had left behind, drywall crumbling from his hand. A moment later, he sagged backwards, his head tilted against the wall.

“I’m no good to anybody,” he said. “Peter’s right. I do need his help.”

He didn’t remember getting on his feet, or nearly running across the room, or twisting his hands in Derek’s henley. His knuckles were almost white against the dark fabric as he shoved Derek further against the wall, as if he were just as strong as the Alpha.

Maybe he was, in this. “You don’t need that asshole’s help for anything,” Stiles growled, watching the answering red flicker in Derek’s eyes. “You get that, Derek? Your undead uncle has nothing on you. You give a shit about people. You try. Fuck, you fail half the time because you’re too stubborn and can’t admit you need help, but at least you try!”

The way Derek averted his eyes, bared his throat, it was enough to have all of that fury seep out of him. Stiles let loose a ragged breath, resting his forehead against Derek’s chest. He could feel the racing heartbeat beneath his fingertips, against his face. He sighed.

“You just gotta let people in,” Stiles muttered. “No one will know you’re trying if you don’t let them in.”

“... I can’t.”

“Why?” The question was barely more than a puff of smoke.

“Because I killed them.”

The quiet that followed buzzed in Stiles’ ears, a vibration that went straight down into his bones. Slowly, he lifted his head, until he could meet those sea-foam eyes.

“My family,” Derek whispered. “I was the one who got them killed.”

“It wasn’t you,” Stiles insisted, tightening his fingers against the jut of Derek’s collarbones. “It was Kate Argent, she-”

“She was my first, you know.”

The pit of his stomach dropped with the weight of those words, and Stiles was barely able to remain upright. Pieces, jagged and half-formed, suddenly crystallized together into a terrible clarity. His heart stuttered in his chest; he could almost hear it breaking.

Derek hung his head, as if unable to bear the weight any longer. Stiles could feel his breath on his mouth. “I was fifteen,” Derek whispered, “and she was beautiful. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I thought she loved me.”

“Christ,” the words were torn from Stiles’ throat, “she - she had to be at least twenty-five. Christ, Derek, you were a child.”

A rolling shudder went through the werewolf and echoed through Stiles. “And, I loved her.” Derek’s voice cracked, splitting open. “I loved her so much. I told her everything, Stiles. Secrets I had never told anyone, secrets that I had no right to share. I loved her and she burned my family alive.”

Stiles’ hands twisted out of Derek’s shirt and slid upwards, one cradling the vulnerable nape of the wolf’s neck and the other tangling in his hair. “You couldn’t have known,” Stiles protested. “You were just a kid and you were in love and she _raped you_ , Derek.”

“But, I-”

“No,” Stiles cut in. “She took advantage of a teenager to suit her own twisted ends. She’s the villain in this, Derek. You’re the victim.”

A sob broke between them; he could taste Derek’s despair on his lips. “They’re dead,” he whispered.

“Because she killed them,” Stiles replied. “Not you. It’s not your fault. Christ, none of this was your fault.”

The bruising kiss was a shock to his system, but Stiles was instantly ravenous, clawing at Derek’s shoulders as if he could climb inside him. Derek’s hands burned in the small of his back; Stiles could feel just the barest prick of claws. His spine arched with it as he bit down on Derek’s bottom lip, greedily drinking down the little sounds that Derek couldn’t swallow down. When Derek pulled away to suck on his earlobe, Stiles’ knees nearly buckled, but Derek’s arms kept him upright, nearly crushing them together. Unable to resist, Stiles took his own retaliation, his mouth working its way down the line of Derek’s throat. He sucked at the juncture of neck and shoulder, mewling in delight to see the purple bruise flare and disappear and how each sucking kiss had Derek’s breath tearing from his mouth.

“Fuck, Stiles.”

Stiles licked along that gorgeous stretch of muscle before biting hard. He could taste Derek’s pulse one his tongue, moaned at the claws pressing hard in his back as Derek’s knees buckled. Then, Derek’s hands were pulling him and up to his mouth again, kissing him like he was starving for it. On some hidden instinct, Stiles knee pressed forward between the werewolf’s, and he could feel every inch of Derek’s cock against his thigh. He rolled his hips.

“Fuck!” Derek flung his head back, arching against Stiles. “Oh, fuck.”

“You like this?” Stiles murmured along the bared line of Derek’s throat. He was grinding his hips into Derek’s, letting Derek ride his thigh and - _Christ_ \- he’d never felt anything so good. “No. You _love_ this. Jesus, you’re gorgeous like this. You should be like this all the time.”

Derek managed a choked breath of laughter. “I think that would kill me, eventually.”

Stiles couldn’t help the smirk, the hard nip against Derek’s jawline. “It’s only a little death.”

“Shit,” Derek gasped. “I would have thought you would be the awkward one.”

“I’m sure I will be,” Stiles answered. His dick was pressing against the groove of Derek’s hip and it wasn’t enough but it was everything. “I’ll blush and stutter and make stupid jokes and have a massive inferiority complex because, Jesus, how do you fit your dick into those tight-ass jeans?”

Derek was thrusting back without thought now, his mouth parted and his eyes partly closed, but open enough that Stiles could see his pupils blown wide. “It’s a gift.”

“That it is,” Stiles panted. He could feel his orgasm coiling at the base of his spine, racing through his blood like lightning. “I can’t wait to get my mouth on it.”

“Fuck!” Derek let loose a choked moan and Stiles felt him shudder in orgasm, the way his hips jerked and his cock spasmed and Stiles dug his nails into Derek’s shoulders and followed him over. He came like he was dying, his whole body shaking with it, and despite the mess coating his jeans, Stiles hadn’t felt so clean in a long time.

The two of them clung to each other, the wall doing most of the work to keep them up. Stiles fit his face against Derek’s throat, breathing in that forest-musk-leather scent that made him think of home.

There were fingers on his chin and Stiles let him be pulled into a kiss, soft and chaste in a way that had his chest aching.

“I have to go,” Derek whispered against his mouth, stealing kisses after every other word. “Peter’s still at the house and if I don’t go he’ll probably burn it down again.”

Stiles found himself smiling. “Punch him a few times for me? I’d be really satisfied if his nose was broken at least once.”

“Mmm.” Another kiss, soft as snowfall. “I’ll see what I can manage.”

When Derek disappeared out the window, Stiles sprawled out onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was only when his dad yelled up at him to get ready for the game, that he stopped tracing his thumb against his lips.

*****

Stiles did his best to keep his post-mutual-orgasm face to a minimum as he made his way to the locker rooms. When he arrived, Scott was already there, muttering to himself and looking honest-to-God terrified.

“Hey, Scott,” Stiles greeted warily. “What’s up?”

“Gerard,” Scott replied, and Stiles felt the familiar swell of panic loom up in his chest. “He’s got control of the kanima and he wants Derek and he’s going to kill someone if I don’t help him.”

Any relaxation that mutual orgasms had bestowed upon Stiles disappeared in an instant. The first thought that went through him was _no, not Derek_ and immediately followed by _not anyone_.

“Did he say who?” Stiles asked.

“No.” Scott sagged against the lockers, shoulders rolling beneath the weight. “It could be anybody.”

Stiles looked around the locker room, his teammates readying themselves for the championship game; he thought about his dad waiting on the stands.

“We’ll figure something out,” Stiles promised, but it was empty. It felt empty during coach’s speech and running across the field and taking his seat at the bench.

“It’s going to be bad, isn’t it?” Stiles mused, throat locking with fear. He felt it pressing in at all sides, and he thought of Derek at the Hale house, and Erica and Boyd and probably Isaac who were long gone, and Allison looking like a mirror image of her aunt. “I mean, people screaming running for their lives - blood - killing - maiming - kind of bad?”

Scott, unable to tell a lie, was honest.“Looks like it.”

He took in a ragged breath, forced his heartbeat to slow. His mouth was still swollen and his eyes were burning. “Scott, the other night seeing my dad get hit over the head by Matt, all the while I’m just lying there and I can’t even move,” he managed, shaking his head, “it just, I want to help, you know, but I can’t do the things that you can do. I can’t…”

“It’s okay.” Thank God for Scott, but it wasn’t enough.

“We’re losing, dude.”

Thoughts on the bloody demise of everyone he loves was derailed by Coach, who was suddenly pushing him onto the field and Stiles found himself in the worst position ever.

“My son is on the field!” Stiles looked over to see his dad standing, arms raised in triumph. His heart thundered in his chest.

“Oh dear God.”

It was hard enough to play lacrosse on a normal day, but to try and play with the threat of the kanima playing the game with you? It was a wonder that Stiles was knocked in the dirt only five times. He counted. Then again, watching Isaac Lahey nearly destroy everyone on the field was both terrifying and kind of awesome. Stiles assumed that meant Isaac was on their side, which was good news, because they needed all the allies they could get.

The fact that he scored the winning goal was just a bonus. It was like time slowed; Stiles watched his dad jump to his feet, the pride in Mrs. McCall’s eyes, the smile across Lydia’s face. For a bright, shining moment, he felt like they could win.

He shouldn’t have been surprised when the chloroform-soaked cloth pressed against his face and he faded into darkness.

*****

Waking up in the trunk of a car was officially on Stiles’ list of Things Not To Do Ever. Waking up to find Gerard Argent towering over him and dragging him into a basement was number one on said list.

Stiles expected a few punches, a split lip maybe, bruises smeared across his cheekbone. Just enough to send a clear message to Scott, to Derek. It still took him by surprise when that first punch rocked his jaw, forcing him to trip over his own feet and crumble onto the concrete floor. Boyd and Erica were screaming behind their gags, words indecipherable but the meaning clear. A few more blows bruised his ribs, slammed into his gut. He tasted blood; he had been right about the split lip.

After a minute, Gerard stood, moved away from where Stiles was curled up on the floor. Something bitter boiled on his tongue. “That all you got, old man?” He spat. “I’ve had better beatings from fourth graders.”

His arms were suddenly yanked backwards, bones scraping against each other. Stiles bit back a shriek, focused instead on the cuffs being secured around his wrists. A dark feeling skittered beneath his skin.

“Bondage, huh?” Stiles sniped (it was true, sarcasm was his only defense). “That’s kinky even for you, gramps. I’d have pegged you for a vanilla type guy. Or maybe all hunters have a thing for chains and preying on those who don’t deserve it.”

There was a husked-out shell of what might have been laughter as Stiles was tossed into a metal chair, its legs bolted into the floor. Gerard pulled his arms again, slipping the chain through the slats of the chair back and locking them securely.

“Those who don’t deserve it,” Gerard repeated, his gruff voice clawing down Stiles’ back. The hunter moved around to face, staring down at Stiles with a small smirk. “Interesting choice of words.”

“You know it’s true.”

Gerard laughed again as he sauntered to a nearby work table. Stiles couldn’t help but notice the sheen of metal as the hunter picked up a short, serrated blade, inspecting it in the florescent light, before laying it down in favor of a long, thin knife. Like the kind his dad used to filet fish. Stiles swallowed down a shudder.

“I’ll tell you what I know to be true,” Gerard began, pulling up a chair to sit in front of Stiles. “I know that Derek’s pack is falling apart around him, that he was never cut out to be Alpha to begin with. I know that Scott is so caught up in pretending to be human he doesn’t notice how vulnerable he really is. And, that he’s too obsessed with my granddaughter to see what you’ve been up to.”

“Me?” Stiles gaped. “What are you smoking? I’m just the very soft, very human sidekick in all of this. I haven’t been-”

“He doesn’t know what you’ve been up to,” Gerard repeated, interrupting Stiles with gentle words and the press of a knife against the base of his throat. “You’d think that, with his superior senses, he’d smell it all over you. I’m just an old man and even I can smell the stink of Derek Hale on your skin.”

Stiles’ throat constricted, his stomach falling to his knees. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted.

Gerard just smiled, the blade sliding upward to rest against his cheek. Stiles tried not to flinch. “Yes,” the hunter whispered, “you do. The truth is that you are more to Derek Hale than anyone realizes, even himself. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? Since he began _playing mates_ with you.”

Stiles willed his face blank, but his nerves crackled and his blood roared in his ears. His pulse was jumping in his throat, and there was no way the old man didn’t see it.

“Ah, yes, for quite some time, then,” Gerard continued, tracing spirals with the knife on the fleshy apple of Stiles’ cheek. “Even if he’s not aware of it, he’s been marking you for his own. Must have been quite a shock when you stood with Scott against him. Wolves are so territorial when it comes to their things.”

“You don’t know anything,” Stiles hissed, ignoring the panic beginning to blur the edges of his vision. “You know nothing about Derek! It’s your daughter that was the monster, your daughter that raped a fifteen-year-old boy-”

His head snapped back with the force of the blow, black spots dancing in front of his eyes and lips teared against his teeth. Stiles blinked a couple of times, Gerard’s face back in view and twisted with malice.

“My daughter did no such thing,” Gerard snapped. “She would never sully herself - would never lay with a beast, even if it meant the pleasure of their undoing.”

Stiles licked blood away from his bottom lip, cracking a mean smile. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it.”

Gerard was silent for a long minute, the silence choked with rot, and then Stiles couldn’t help the shriek ripped from his mouth as sharp, hot pain lanced through his shoulder. He looked down, saw the blood already seeping through the collar of his uniform, before looking back up into the smiling face of Gerard Argent.

“Taking the bite, I can understand,” the hunter said, as if his knife wasn’t dripping with Stiles’ blood. “Power, strength, superhuman abilities. But, laying with one? Rutting with one? Becoming nothing more than a willing bitch - that I cannot understand.”

“What about Allison?” Stiles asked. “She and Scott - is that what you think of your own granddaughter?”

“Allison will soon know the error of her ways. She will cleanse herself of this when her arrows force Scott to his knees so I can take his head. She will understand what is necessary for forgiveness.”

Bile roiled upwards and Stiles spat to the side; his blood was bright against the concrete. “You’re a sick fuck.”

“And, of all the wolves, you chose Derek Hale,” Gerard mused. “Sorry Alpha that he is. Tell me, Stiles, does he taste like ashes?”

Fury overrode his fear in an instant, his vision glazing crimson as he launched himself forward, the cuffs biting into his wrists. “Don’t say another word about him,” Stiles snarled, low and full of grit. “You know nothing about him. You don’t deserve to say his fucking name so shut the fuck up.”

Gerard sat back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “It’s even worse than I thought,” he murmured. “You actually care about him. You...” His words were interrupted with bubbling laughter, the sound obscene. “You actually love him.”

Stiles said nothing, could only breathe. The words weren’t new or special or groundbreaking, but hearing them aloud was the last piece slipping into place. They entered his lungs on a ragged inhale and they became his breath, sank into his blood and echoed in his heartbeat.

He was in love with Derek.

Even with the truth blazing through him like daylight, Stiles refused to admit it here, not where Gerard could twist it for his own sadistic purposes. But, he wouldn’t deny it either, not when it meant something. Not because he was afraid.

“This is even better than I could have imagined,” the hunter chuckled. He leaned forward again, pressing the flat of the knife against Stiles’s temple, so he could see just a glimpse of metal out of the corner of his eye. “I will take you apart. I will break you down until you can’t think of anything but to curse Derek’s name.”

Stiles scoffed, swallowing the fear burning in his gut. “How very _1984_ of you. Not very original though.”

Gerard continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “And then, when you are a barely recognizable body, I will have those two over there deliver you to Derek’s doorstep, the ruins of his family’s home. Rather poetic, isn’t it? Oh, I wish I could be there. I wish I could see the look on his face, knowing that it was all his fault. That everyone around him, everyone who loves him, dies. It’s what my Kate would have wanted.”

Stiles didn’t want to imagine it, didn’t want to see it, but it was already unfolding in his mind. It made his chest tighten and his eyes water and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Please,” Stiles choked, voice clogged with too many emotions to name. “Please.”

“Oh, Mr. Stilinski,” Gerard crooned, raising the knife. “It is much too late for that. Much too late.”

Time slowed and there was pain.

Moments became like freeze frame shots. The slow slide of a blade against his cheek. A fist slamming into his side. Muffled screams from behind duct tape. Blood staining the white letters of his uniform. Strong arms lifting him from the chair against a strange chest. Wind whistling through the trees. The old, charred smell of the Hale house. Raised voices, anger and fear and-

“Derek,” he murmured, and Stiles felt his body slide against a solid chest, but it was warm, familiar. He could smell leather and forest. “Derek.”

Someone’s breath was tangling in his hair, words whispered as if underwater. A warm hand cupped the back of his head, his cheek brushing against stubble. Stiles smiled.

“Derek.”

He slipped into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I totally lied about there being only one chapter left. But, really, there's only one more chapter left!


	14. The Path to Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles didn’t resist (Derek was the definition of an immovable object), but he was nothing less than an unstoppable force.
> 
> Chapter title: [Imagine Dragons - It's Time](http://8tracks.com/goforthandconquer/the-silence-between)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta-ed. Has dialogue from S2E12.

Stiles woke up slowly, his eyelids already aching from the effort. The room was swathed in shadow, but he recognized the rundown furniture, the barely there ceiling, the smell of coal that permeated everything. He ran his tongue against his bottom lip, wincing when the fragile scab there pulled. There was a bandage strapped across his shoulder, tugging the skin of his cheek. Opening his eyes further, he could feel his pupils adjusting to the darkness, feeling returning to his limbs.

He tried to sit up, already struggling with effort, when a firm hand splayed across his chest and pushed him firm against the mattress.

“Don’t.”

Stiles tilted his head to look up at Derek, whose eyes were unnaturally bright.

“How long have I been out?”

“Not long,” Derek answered. “Maybe fifteen minutes. Had it been any longer, and I don’t care how dead Peter’s supposed to be, we would be taking you to the hospital.”

“Gerard?” Stiles murmured, content to lie back on the bed for now.

Derek’s hand squeezed tighter, his shoulder warming beneath the heat of his palm .”Don’t worry,” he finally replied. “He won’t hurt you again. We’ll make sure of it.”

Stiles nodded, just the slightest movement before going still again. The silence hanging between them said too much and not enough. He knew he should be grateful that Gerard hadn’t done any further damage, which he could and would have. Those eyes had held no limits, no lines that could not be crossed. He was lucky to be left with only a split lip and a few healing knife wounds, punctuating the smattering of bruises.

Funny enough, as terrified as he had been of Peter and the kanima and even Scott those few times, it was an old man, merely human, that was the most terrifying monster he had yet faced.

Shadows shifted across Derek’s face. The usual scowl was replaced with a blankness that held so little and was so much worse. Struck with weary determination, Stiles tried to sit up again only to have that hand press his chest more firmly against the mattress.

“Are you an idiot?” Derek hissed, fury twisting his features and it was infinitely better than the emptiness from before. “Stop trying to make it worse.”

Stiles didn’t resist (Derek was the definition of an immovable object) but he was nothing less than an unstoppable force. He just knew that sometimes it took careful maneuvering around said object. So, he let Derek’s hand press him down, painfully aware of the trembling that the Alpha was trying so hard to hide. Instead, he slid a hand upwards, curling around Derek’s wrist and feeling his pulse beat frantic against his palm. He brushed his thumb against the small curve of bone, watched as Derek sank further onto the mattress beside him. Tension ran along the broad width of his shoulders, and Stiles felt those fingers relax, slowly stretch to trace along his collarbone.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his gut twisting to see how his words made Derek shudder. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

Derek tilted his face toward him then, expression one of absolute ruin. “I - ” he tried, words like grit between his teeth. “I wasn’t - I should have... Fuck.”

“Derek - ”

“It’s my fault,” he hissed, furious, a contrast to the barely there sweep of his thumb along Stiles’ jugular.

Stiles tightened his fingers on Derek’s wrist, forcing the Alpha’s attention to him. “It was not your fault,” he insisted. “It was Gerard Argent’s fault and no one else’s. I’m safe now, and that’s what matters. So, don’t start with this guilt shit or I’ll kick your ass.”

Some of the tension around Derek’s mouth eased. “Like you could.”

“I could try.”

“Yeah.” Something was buried in that murmured hush, ragged and soft, and suddenly they weren’t talking about Gerard Argent anymore. “You could try.”

Pain receded in the wake of the heat spiraling low in his stomach. “Would you let me?” Stiles asked, slipping his hand upwards, tracing the veins along Derek’s forearms, feeling the skin shiver beneath his fingertips.

Derek swallowed, jaw set; Stiles could feel the moment pressing down, threatening to tear them both apart. Like the shattering of glass, Derek’s hand swept upward to cradle his jaw, thumb searing hot at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” he whispered, and Stiles could feel it in his bones. “I would let you.”

Breath escaped him as Derek bent down and slanted his mouth over his. God, it was just as hot as he remembered, all burning intensity, Derek not content to just have his mouth but to own it. Stiles threaded his fingers in Derek’s hair, moaning as that wicked tongue slid against his. Derek tilted his head back, fingers insistent against his jawline to deepen the kiss further. He pulled back just for a moment to run his tongue along his lower lip, and Stiles knew the werewolf could still taste blood when he growled against his mouth. A heady urge welled up in his throat and Stiles ran his teeth along his lip, tearing the split open again until he felt blood beading. Then, he swiped his mouth across Derek’s, hearing that rumble in the Alpha’s chest intensify. A heated instant later, Derek was devouring him, snarling in the back of his throat.

Stiles scrapped his fingernails across Derek’s scalp, trying to pull him closer, and groaned in satisfaction as Derek crawled onto the mattress, settling against him. Some primitive instinct had Stiles parting his legs, slotting those hips between his thighs. Derek was a delicious weight above him, his hard cock grinding against his own, and it was better than any wet dream he’d ever had. Their mouths parted, gasping, and Derek took it as an invitation to run his nose along the length of Stiles’ arched throat. Little puffs of air brushed beneath his ear, along his collarbone, as Derek breathed in his scent. Stiles flushed at the thought, remembering that night only a few days ago (lifetimes ago) when Derek had whispered obscenities in his ear and made him come.

“Christ,” Derek groaned, swiping his tongue at the pulse point. “I can smell what you’re thinking - you get even hotter and sweeter when you think of sex. _Fuck_ , it’s delicious.”

A moment later, blunt teeth were biting into the line of his neck, sucking at the skin there with brutal efficiency. Stiles keened beneath him, raking nails down the rippling length of his back, pushing his hips upward.

“Please,” he whimpered, desperate for friction. “Please please please please please.”

Derek’s mouth slanted over his own as one calloused hand slid up under his shirt, hot as a brand. Stiles hissed as those fingers swept over the waistband of his shorts before finally snaking inside. He arched upwards, almost shrieking, as Derek wrapped his hand around his cock.

“Fuck!” 

Already, Derek was working him fast, almost tight enough to hurt but it hurt too good to stop. Precome was slicking Derek’s hand, the noises obscene and filthy and so fucking hot Stiles could barely stand it. He tossed his head back and forth, sucked in ragged breaths as Derek nosed the line of his throat.

“Please,” Stiles rasped, hands clutching at Derek’s shoulders, nails digging into the muscle.

Derek sucked one open kiss at the juncture of Stiles’ neck. “Please what?”

“You’re such a bastard,” Stiles whined even as he arched his back. Liquid heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, knotted with lightning. It was absolute torture and everything he ever wanted.

“I know,” Derek whispered, “and I’m about to make you come.”

His thumb was circling over the head, slick and wet, and Stiles moaned to think about how he must smell right now, the blood from his lip and the salt of his come and Derek breathing all of that in. Derek’s wrist twisted and Stiles yelped, eyes clenched shut and head thrown back.

“Fucking please!”

Teeth grazed his throat. “Then, come already.”

It was like exploding and being put back together all at the same time, his body shaking with the force of it. Stiles knew his mouth was open and sounds were coming out, but he couldn’t find it in him to care. Aftershocks rippled through him, oxygen once again a necessity as he slowly spiraled back down. When he opened his eyes, it was to see Derek ripping his jeans open and pulling out his own cock. Even in shadows, it was beautiful, thick and insistent, the head slick and plummy and Stiles wanted to get his mouth on it.

“I want…” His tongue wouldn’t cooperate. “I want to-”

“Shut up.” Derek was jerking himself in brutal strokes, his hand wet, and that’s when Stiles realized Derek was using his own come to slick himself up, fucking himself with Stiles’ scent. If he wasn’t nearly dead from orgasm, he would have dove headlong into another.

“I want to taste,” Stiles insisted, yanking on Derek’s hips.

Derek’s hand stopped, gripping just beneath the head.

“What.” His eyes flashed scarlet.

“Come ‘ere.”

Slow as honey, Derek let himself be manipulated by Stiles’ hands until he was straddling his chest. Stiles let his fingers slip into Derek’s belt loops, tugging lightly and letting his mouth part.

“Come. Here.”

The groan seemed ripped out of him as Derek leaned forward, just enough that Stiles could take his first lick. The skin was smooth, impossibly smooth, and wet with slick, bittersweet salt and he didn’t even think twice before taking the head into his mouth.

“Fucking Christ,” Derek cursed, and Stiles moaned around him, unable to get enough leverage to take more into his mouth. Instead, he sucked at the head, his tongue circling in quick passes over the slit.

Derek’s hand was moving again, his hips jerking with small thrusts forward. Stiles sucked even harder, tried to reach take him even further in his mouth. His lip was split open again and his jaw ached and tears burned at the corners of his eyes. It was the best fucking thing he’d ever done.

Derek sunk forward, his free hand bracing itself next to Stiles’ head. “I’m so close,” he confessed, and Stiles’ response was to pull back, mouthing the tip of his cock with his lips.

“Then come already,” he whispered, before sucking Derek back into his mouth.

Stiles watched Derek fall apart as he swallowed all of that bittersweet saltiness down. Derek’s head was thrown back, lips parted with a guttural groan, and Stiles wasn’t sure he had ever seen anything so beautiful. 

With a ragged sigh, Derek pulled himself back, collapsing next to Stiles on the mattress.

“That might not have been the best timing,” he pointed out, though his words were muffled as he stretched himself over Stiles, burying his face into his neck.

“Whatever, we earned that,” Stiles muttered, lazed and so close to passing out. “We’ll fight the good fight later.”

Stiles felt Derek stiffen against him, and all too soon his afterglow was over.

“Shit.” Derek rolled over onto his back. “Shit. I really need to go.”

Stiles nodded, trying to push words past numb lips. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Evil reptilian bastard trying to destroy everything that we love. Oh, and there’s the kanima too.”

Derek snorted, pressing his lips to Stiles’ temple. “Even beat to hell, you’re making jokes.”

“That’s my prerogative.”

“Thanks, Britney.”

“You understood that reference! I’m so proud.”

Fingers drew along his jawline and Stiles followed them eagerly, letting his words get swallowed up in Derek’s mouth. Their kisses lingered, a heavy syrup melting into his bones, turning them into honey.

“Mmm,” he breathed, barely able to pull away. “Don’t you have a psychopathic murderer to stop and a day to save?”

Derek leaned in for one last kiss before resting their foreheads together. “Unfortunately.”

They both climbed to their feet, Stiles hissing as pain once again made his presence known. A warm hand slid over his forearm, and Stiles watched the black threading through Derek’s veins and a soaring numbness taking its place.

“You’re better than morphine, dude.” Stiles rolled his shoulder in example. “I just had a knife in there and I can’t feel a damn thing. Can I keep you?”

Derek rolled his eyes, not quite concealing the vulnerable look on his face. “If you like,” he allowed.

“I like,” Stiles replied, and any snark was lost in the softness of his voice. “I like that a lot.”

The way Derek was looking at him, Stiles was sure they were headed for another sugary sweet moment that he pretended to hate but actually loved. That was until an imperious knock sounded at the door.

“If you’re both quite done defiling each other, I believe we have business to attend to.”

Stiles groaned, slumping his forehead onto Derek’s shoulder. “Can we set him on fire again?”

“You know he can hear you.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

Stiles’ felt Derek’s smile against his hair, pressed against his scalp before they pulled away.

“So, you’re gonna head to the school?”

Derek nodded. “Scott should still be there. We’ll figure out how we’re gonna do this.”

“Save the town from the poorly funded remake of Godzilla?”

“Something like that.”

Stiles deliberately ignored Peter’s sly looks as they exited the Hale house (and he seriously can’t believe he lost just half of his virginity in the broken, burnt out shell of Derek’s childhood home with zombie uncle Peter within hearing distance). His Jeep was already there, and Stiles couldn’t help but smirk.

“Hotwiring my car? You’re practically begging for my dad to arrest you.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but his mouth remained soft. “I’m sorry I can’t drive you back. But, with Jackson and Gerard-”

“Hey,” Stiles interrupted. “It’s okay. With great power comes great responsibility. Though if that makes me Mary Jane I’m gonna be so pissed-”

It was Derek’s turn to interrupt him, though the soft kiss was a welcome distraction.

“I’ll call you, okay?”

Stiles smiled against Derek’s mouth. “Yeah, you do that.”

*****

Adrenaline was slowly leeching out of his system until his stomach was gutted hollow as he pulled up into his drive. He had no idea what his dad would say upon seeing him. He hadn’t been winning any awards for best son recently, and the bruise on his cheek could be the final death knell. In a terrible burst of irony, Stiles remembered the other bruises littering his skin (a certain Alpha wolf had a painfully obvious hickey fetish) and how they would blend into the overall canvas of mugging victim.

Anxiety scraped along his nerves as he got out of the car. The light from his room was on, his dad clearly outlined as he paced back and forth. A surge of guilt boiled over in his gut, frothy and seared hot. It was a long walk into his house and up the stairs, his father’s voice razored with panic.

“Dammit, Stiles! Where the hell are you?”

He stood in the doorway, the pain in his shoulder once again throbbing, and it was nothing next to his heart breaking.

“Right here.” 

The look on his dad’s face haunted him, making it nearly impossible to remember the words coming out of his mouth. Just the way he touched his face, as if he were afraid of doing more damage, had Stiles’ knees nearly buckling underneath him. His lies flowed easy now, flinching with each word hitting his father like a bullet.

“Dad!” Stiles had to interrupt, had to slam the brakes on his dad’s outrage, that seething gentleness even as he promised revenge. “I said it was okay.”

When his dad hugged him, his shoulder screamed in protest, but it was barely a whisper over the sound of his relief, sagging against his dad as if he could hold him up against the world. As if somehow his father could protect him from all the things that went bump in the night by turning on a nightlight and brushing back his hair. The way his mother used to.

His dad’s reluctant steps out of the room weighed heavy in Stiles’ chest as he flopped onto his bed. The buzzing of his nerves had died down to a restless electricity, unpleasant and sharp. With silence brought the roar of his thoughts, possibilities zinging through his frontal lobe with each “what if” scenario turning more and more bloody. Thoughts of Scott’s mouth hanging open, puppy eyes dulled over, or Lydia trapped in the kanima’s clutches, bleeding out like she had on the lacrosse field with her blood staining Peter’s teeth. Or the gut-punching images of Derek, torn open and ripped apart and screaming Stiles’ name-

There was a knock on the door. Even as he welcomed the distraction, acid curdled in his gut.

“Dad, I said I’m fine.”

Another knock sounded, and Stiles let out an irritated huff as he walked to the door. Any words on his tongue withered up to see Lydia staring back at him.

“Hi.”

Stiles shut his gaping mouth. “Hi.”

“Your father let me in,” Lydia explained, meek in a way that had Stiles gnashing his teeth.

“He did? Oh yeah, of course he did.”

Her eyes flickered to his cheek. “What happened to your…?”

As if on cue, pain rushed back into his face with the casual reminder. “Oh, yeah, nah it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine. Do you want to come in?” 

Lydia nodded, softly still, and walked into his room. The scenario had played in his head so many times before, how the girl he had been in love with since third grade would look up and finally see everything that he was. The realization would light up her eyes and the still frames would be in sepia, the happy ending rolling out before the movie credits. But, Stiles wasn’t interested in happy endings anymore. Not when he was on the cusp of a beginning with a broken man who looked at him like he was precious. “How are you doing?”

Lydia’s eyes were glossed over in tears, and it still had the power to punch him in the gut. “They won’t let me see him.” Her words were delicately spun silk, fragile even in the silence of the room. “I’m supposed to give him something. He kept asking for it back.”

Watching her cry for another man still rang in hollow spaces inside of him, but Stiles felt no burning response to kiss her tears away. He wanted to hold her hand and promise her that Jackson would somehow come back to her. That her fairytale, twisted and so very dark right now, was a breath away from the light. But, even now, Stiles couldn’t lie to her. He let her roll her eyes at him at the bags of jewelry on his desk, played the fool for a few more minutes, just so he could see the quiver of a smile. It was small. It was something.

It wasn’t enough, as Lydia reached out to him.

“You’re gonna want to read this.”

The thought of kanima returning (not Jackson, it was no longer Jackson) had bile soaking through his bones. A vibrating jolt had his hands scrambling, and Stiles swiped his screen bright.

_We’re taking Jackson to the warehouse. You know the one. It ends tonight - D_

Stiles’ throat clenched. His fingers trembled.

_What do you mean? Is there a plan? What about Gerard? What’s going to happen? - S_

_I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep everyone safe. To keep you safe. - D_

A shadow crept up into his chest, sucking out the oxygen stored there.

_That sounds ominous and self-sacrificial and I swear to fuck Derek if you get yourself killed I’ll never forgive you - S_

The next few minutes felt like days. Lydia was silent next to him, watching, and Stiles could barely pay her any mind, just waited for his text tone to break the quiet.

Silence broke.

_I love you - D_

Stiles knew a goodbye when he heard one. The knotted mess of his arteries spasmed and he squeezed his eyes shut. He sucked in a breath, allowed his lungs to expand then contract. He opened his eyes.

“How much do you know about this stuff?” He asked, desperate to keep looking at Lydia’s face, swallowing back his racing heart beating out the words _I love you I love you I love you_.

“Pieces,” she answered. “Half of its like a dream.”

Bitter laughter hiccuped in his throat. “Well, guess what? The other half is like a freaking nightmare.”

Lydia’s jaw clenched, eyes flashing heat. He was suddenly struck with remembering why he had loved her in the first place. “I don’t care. I can help him.”

That same fire burning in her words, like the fire that tore apart Beacon Hills six years ago. His jaw was still rubbed pink from stubble and the ghost-memory of calloused hands was still branded on his skin. Those words scraped through his ribcage (I love you/ _goodbye_ ) and the ashes clogging his veins were suddenly blazing like a phoenix reborn.

“You see, that’s the problem,” Stiles growled through bared teeth. “You don’t care about getting hurt. But, you know how I’ll feel? I’ll be devastated. And if you die, I will literally go out of my freaking mind.” An image seared his retinas: open and blank eyes the color of seafoam. “You see, death doesn’t happen to you, Lydia. It happens to everyone around you, okay? It’s all the people left standing at your funeral, trying to figure out how they’re going to live the rest of their lives now without you in it. Huh?”

He pushed his advance, like the moon was pulling him forward. “And look at my face, huh? Come on, you actually think that this was meant to hurt _me_?” 

When the fire cleared, it was Lydia who was staring at him, her face salt-stained. Not Derek.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and he was. He was sorry for everything. He was sorry when she walked out of the room and he was sorry that he was too afraid to chase after her and he was sorry that his bones were made of glass and his skin made of paper.

He wasn’t enough to save anyone and that hurt worse than anything.

Even his dad’s words were like echoes, something that faded with each passing repetition.

“No, I mean it,” his dad insisted. Stiles forced himself to look at him. “It… Look, it was pretty much over. And, then you got the ball and you started running. You scored and the tide just turned. And you scored again. And again. You weren’t just the MVP of the game. You were a hero.”

Then why did his mouth taste like ashes?

“No, I’m not a hero, Dad.”

His dad smiled at him, a benediction.“You were last night.”

Footsteps sounded smaller and smaller, leaving Stiles alone once again.

“I’m not a hero,” he repeated, the words filling out his mouth. “How could I be a hero? I’m just human, something breakable, I’m not-”

A hot and bright flickered somewhere in the depths, a memory of Deaton’s words ( _you have the believe it_ ). The smell of mountain ash invaded his senses like smoke, twisting with the burnt alcohol scent of a Molotov cocktail. Slowly, he stood up, his body straightening like a bow unleashing an arrow. His cheekbone ached, but it was the memory of Derek’s mouth brushing against his skin rather than a flashback of Gerard’s fists. He looked down at his phone, the last text message still plainly written.

_I love you - D_

( _be the spark_ )

He dialed the number, hands still as he waited for her voice to sound.

“Hello?” Lydia answered.

“Let’s save them,” he said. “Let’s save them all, Lydia.”

“... Alright, then.”

*****

“So.”

Even one little word from Lydia had Stiles’ hackles raised, a fight or flight response even in the narrow confines of his Jeep.

“Sooo… what?”

“Who were you talking about?”

Stiles glanced over at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”

She was curling a strand of hair between her fingers, the gesture mindless though her eyes were razor-focused on the road ahead. “That speech you gave me earlier about death not happening to you but everyone around you. Those words weren’t meant for me, were they?”

Stiles was beginning to regret having a genius sit next to him during emotional vulnerable states. All of his secrets were easy picking as it were without handing them to Lydia Martin on a silver platter. “No,” he finally admitted. “They weren’t.”

Her fingernails tapped out an uneven rhythm on the door. It kept Stiles’ sufficiently distracted for a few minutes, as he broke a dozen traffic laws on the way to the warehouse district.

“It’s not Scott, is it?”

Laughter broke open his mouth, a smile splitting his face and his lip open again. He found he didn’t mind. “That is by far the most disturbing thing you could have said to me.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, but seemed pleased at his laughter. “I could deduce it, slowly and painfully, or you could skip that bit and just tell me.”

Slivers of uncertainty bit into the spaces between his ribs. He had kept this secret for so long, kept Derek to himself for so long, that releasing that knowledge was almost blasphemy. But, Derek wasn’t something to be hidden away in the dark like a secret, like he was ashamed.

If he was going to be a hero tonight, it was going to be in more ways than one.

“It was for Derek,” he said.

A beat passed. “You mean, Derek Hale? Accused of murder on multiple accounts and generally creepy stalker of teenagers that _have_ been acting weird lately OH MY GOD he’s a werewolf, isn’t he?”

Stiles found himself laughing again, licking the blood away from his lip. “He’s the Alpha, actually. The head honcho. Though he really sucked at it for awhile.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lydia was giving him a pursed look. “And, you guys fell in love over mutilated corpses and frolicking under the full moon?”

“It was simpler than that,” Stiles admitted. As if a dam were cracking open, one thread at a time, the story slowly trickled out of him. Lydia listened silently, from the first phone call at the crisis center to Derek’s Alpha transformation to the revelations on his bedroom floor.

When the words ran out, Stiles didn’t feel empty at all.

“So, that’s it,” he finished in a rush. “That’s pretty much the epic saga of Stiles falling in love with a cranky asshole who can’t use punctuation properly and looks like Grumpy Cat.”

“He _really_ does,” Lydia remarked. “The eyebrows are so… pronounced.”

Stiles had to agree. “He frowns all the time,” he bemoaned. “It’s a shame because he’s hot like burning.”

Lydia nodded. “It’s true. And I’ve seen Jackson naked.”

His nose wrinkled at that. “Me too, unfortunately.” Lydia raised an eyebrow at him. “He was turning into a lizard willy-nilly and we were trying to stop him and…Whatever, I did not appreciate it at the time.”

His words dropped liked stones, reminding them of what they were racing towards. Lights became farther spaced, the houses dwindling and concrete buildings taking their place. Stiles swerved around a corner, the warehouse in question coming into view. He glanced over at Lydia, his mouth set in a grim line.

“You ready?”

She nodded. “Let’s do this.”

One moment, they were rocketing toward the building. The next, they were inside it.

*****

The solid crash of mass against metal reverberated in his chest as Stiles slammed on the brakes. It seemed so much brighter than usual (his pupils must be dilated). He dragged oxygen through his gaping mouth.

“Did I get him?”

His question was answered when a seriously pissed off kanima was looking ready to grab him through the windshield and eat him alive. Lydia was already scrambling out of the car, and Stiles was quick to follow.  
He caught Scott’s eye, sharing twin smiles of congratulation, quick glances to make sure the other was okay.

When Stiles finally saw Derek on the ground, curled on in himself, something snapped.

“Derek!”

He was already running forward when Scott’s arm came around his chest like an iron bar.

“Stiles!” Scott’s brow was furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“Why is he hurt?!” Stiles demanded, panic rising in his throat. “I thought you guys were going to protect each other!”

“Why would I protect Derek?” Scott rebuked. It was a cold bullet in his chest. “It’s Derek.”

There had been so many moments that had passed between them, glossed over by shrugs and averted looks. Stiles could have told Scott from the beginning, could have ignored the jealousy poisoning his chest whenever Scott obsessively wrapped the conversation around Allison over and over again. Instead, Stiles kept something for himself, and this was not the time.

Stiles shrugged him off and ran the rest of the way, skidding to his knees.

“You fucking idiot!” He snapped, hands already curling around Derek’s shoulders to haul him up against him. “You fucking idiot with your fucking martyr complex. I should fucking kill you myself.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“No, you shut up! I’m not the one that confessed actual feelings as a way of saying goodbye! You know how completely traumatic that would have been if you-”

The harsh kiss pressed against his lips had him shaking. It was a short, brutal thing, Derek’s fangs pressing against his shredded lip, and Stiles could have kissed him forever.

Instead, Derek pulled back the next moment in favor of curling around him. “I know. I’m an idiot. Just shut up and let me have this, okay?”

Heavy breaths warmed his collarbone, Derek’s hand fisting the back of his shirt, and Stiles pressed his cheek against Derek’s temple. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles watched the events unfold. Scott standing there, his head whipping between gaping at him and staring at the kanima. Jackson’s eyes were blue again, his scales receding as the brass key in Lydia’s hand shone like a beacon. Peter was skulking in the corner, watching the events unfold before slipping out of the shadows.

“It’s time, Derek.”

Without a word, Stiles helped Derek to his feet, pressed against the entire length of him.

“Don’t kill him,” he pleaded, refusing to let Derek look away. “Just, don’t kill him.”

Derek sighed, then nodded, kissing the corner of his mouth before limping away. Stiles wasn’t sure what he imagined would happen (something with claws and teeth no doubt). Instead, Derek laid a careful hand on Jackson’s shoulder, eyes flashing red.

“You’re pack,” he stated, the command rumbling like thunder. “You belong here.”

Jackson’s face shifted, pupils slitting then rounding out again.

“You belong with us,” Derek repeated. “You are _pack_.”

The last of the scales faded into nothing but pale skin, Jackson’s eyes flashing fluorescent blue. With just a few words, it was over. Jackson was a werewolf. The kanima was gone.

If only that meant the damage was erased too.

“Stiles?” Scott was the first to speak. His eyes were burning topaz, hands clenched into fists. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he was. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know where to start.”

Metal scraped on metal, and Chris Argent was already bending over a black pool of blood. “Gerard’s gone,” he informed them. “Hopefully, he’s dead, but we can’t be sure.”

Derek nodded, his werewolf features fading back into human ones. Behind him, Lydia and Jackson were hugging hard enough that Stiles could even hear their bones creak. Peter had once again slipped into shadows and Scott was not so patiently waiting for an explanation.

Derek looked at him and smiled. “We’ll figure something out.”

*****

Stiles stared up at the ceiling, tossing the ball up and down, up and down, when the incoming call light went red. 

“Beacon Hills Crisis Center. How can I help you?”

“Hey there. I - I just need someone to talk to.”

Stiles smiled. “I’d be happy to listen. What’s going on?”

He rolled the ball between his fingers, talking Vickie through her problems, sorting through her breakup with her boyfriend and her parents’ divorce. He assessed her risk (low for suicidality) but he recommended she talk to her school counselor, finishing the call with “You can call us back whenever you need. We’ll be here.”

He was just hanging up the phone when a few of the volunteers walked in, signaling the end of his shift. With a wave goodbye, he left the call center, squinting his eyes against the surge of sunlight. Beacon Hills was beginning to wake up, the sun urging the town into the day as Stiles wove his way through the still-empty streets. His heart was a steady rhythm, his breaths soft and deep. It took effort not to fidget, to let the calm of the day sink into his center.

After all, his life was no longer immediately in danger. It was like half a year of pure adrenaline, and he was slowly spiraling down from the high.

It had been less than a week since the kanima had been made into a real boy once again. Jackson had returned from the dead, the most sensational story Beacon Hills had seen in a long time, and was being lauded as a “medical miracle.” The experts kept blaming it on some sort of poison that could slow your heart rate into almost nothing. Stiles certainly wasn’t going to correct them.

Erica and Boyd had run just to return the next day. Stiles had watched them reunite with Derek, how the iron line of Derek’s back had crumpled as he pulled them both into a hug. Isaac had joined in as Jackson watched on, his hand in Lydia’s. Even without being a wolf, Stiles could almost smell the strings of pack tightening around them, a bond slowly being braided with steel. They had brought a warning with them, stuttering about a symbol and wolf calls in the air. The words “Alpha pack” were still ringing in his head but, for the first time, Stiles didn’t feel the press of foreboding in his stomach. Instead, a spark flared bright.

The thoughts wouldn’t leave him, even as he pulled into his drive, dragging himself up the stairs. He could hear his dad snoring down the hall as he trudged into his room. Collapsing on the bed, Stiles immediately sank into his pillows, his mind still whirring.

The day after everything, Scott had sat on his bed, listened to his story, then immediately started screaming at him about making terrible life choices. It hadn’t improved when Stiles had learned exactly how Scott had defeated Gerard, mostly by lying and manipulating Derek who had, in admittedly terrible ways, been trying to help him. Four days had passed without any communication, and Stiles was sure that Scott could be found perched precariously on Allison’s roof like a living gargoyle.

Last night, he’d sent a text saying, _I’m sorry. You’re my best friend. I forgive you_.

His eyelids fluttered closed. He hoped it was enough.

“Hey.” 

A knock on the door pulled him from dreams. Stiles stretched onto his back, glaring at his daddad leaning against his doorframe. “How was your shift?”

“Fine,” Stiles murmured. “Had a good night. What time is it?”

“A little after one. I’m heading to the office and I wanted to make sure you were up.”

Stiles sighed, rubbing at his temples. “Thanks, dad.”

“You okay, kid? You’ve been quiet these last few days.”

“Scott’s being a dick,” Stiles finally answered, the only answer he could really give. “We’ll figure it out.”

His dad grimaced. “As much as that kid eats me out of house and home, I hope you guys do figure it out.” He then gave him a pointed, Sheriff look. “And, what about Lydia?”

That was something Stiles could smile about. “She and Jackson are weirdly happy together. The meaner they both are to each other, the more they know they’re in love. It’s kind of adorably disgusting.”

“Not nursing a broken heart?”

Stiles shook his head. “Nah,” he answered. “I’m actually much happier being her best friend, which I guess I am now? In the way that I’m forced to go on shopping trips as if I’m there for my opinion rather than just to carry her bags.”

There was a bark of laughter from the doorway before his dad’s grin turned soft and sad. “Look,” he began, “I know you and I have had a rocky few months. But, I want you to know that I’m proud of you.”

A broken piece inside him settled back into place. “Thanks, Dad. Be safe, okay?”

“I will.”

The door shut downstairs, his dad’s cruiser pulling out toward the station. Stiles silently counted to himself, making it almost to thirty seconds before a boot scuffed at the windowsill.

“You really do want to be arrested.”

Derek rolled his eyes at him, flopping down on the bed without a breath between them. “You seem to be very invested in my criminal record,” he sniped, breathing in the space behind Stiles’ ear. “Should I be concerned?”

A flush of heat squirreled its way to his spine. “I did first meet you in the back of a police cruiser,” Stiles reminded him, tilting his head to give Derek more access. “It must have resonated with me.”

Teeth slid against his throat. “I’m not getting arrested unless you get me arrested. Which you have.”

“Only once.”

Derek growled, suddenly rolling them until Stiles was fit snugly underneath him, hips shoved between his thighs. “Once is more than enough.”

Stiles sighed wearily, but he couldn’t help but roll his hips, hands sneaking up Derek’s arms to scratch the hair at the base of his skull. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Kissing Derek would never get boring. Ever. It wasn’t possible. Stiles had never felt so thoroughly opened up before, not until Derek was mapping his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip, moaning into the spaces between them. He never tasted like anything in particular (no hints of coffee or toothpaste or whatever else was romanticised in fanfiction); he simply tasted like Derek, a warmth that he could feel down in his bones.

Hands slipped underneath his t-shirt, spreading heat across his ribs, and Stiles arched into it, throwing his head back. Derek immediately went to work at sucking a hickey at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, scraping against the over-sensitized skin with his teeth.

“So, we need to be 100% more naked,” Stiles commanded, though it was lost in heady sigh.

“You just woke up.”

“Yeah, and I’m horny. Can’t we just consider this morning sex?”

Derek nipped the line of his jaw. “I suppose.”

It would have been comical how fast they were managing this, clothes torn over their heads, except neither of them were laughing. The slide of Derek’s skin against his was intoxicating, his eyes fluttering at the heavy shift of thighs against his and the rub of hair against his stomach. He was already leaking, Derek’s cock smearing in the precome every time they rolled together. It was like the tide, salty and slick and pulling them ever closer to drowning.

He scrapped his nails down Derek’s back, mesmerized how his spine arched with the movement. “I believe someone promised me all sorts of things.”

“Really?” Derek murmured. “I can’t seem to recall any.”

“Don’t be a prick,” Stiles chastised, though it didn’t quite come off the way he intended when Derek’s thumbs slipped over his nipples.

“I would never.”

“You so would.”

Derek smiled like the wolf he was, brushing his mouth against Stiles’ ear. “Was it something about being a cocktease? Or opening you wide on my fingers until you can’t remember your name?”

Stiles’s whole body shuddered, heat streaking through his nerves. “Shit, how do you make everything vaguely threatening and ungodly hot at the same time?”

“Werewolf.”

“No,” Stiles murmured, “I think that’s just you.”

Derek paused from the latest hickey to look at him with wide, green-sea eyes.

“And,” Stiles continued, hands sneaking down the curve of Derek’s lower back, “I’m totally, 100%, all the way into it. Into you.”

There was no wolf grin this time, only a soft smile that had Stiles’ aching in the pit of his gut, the center of his chest. He kissed Derek, just brushing their lips together.

“Though, I’d rather you be _actually_ into me at the moment.”

“That was terrible.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

Stiles heart stumbled in his chest. He knew Derek could hear it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

For the first time in a long time, Stiles felt whole and new, as if there were no scars on his skin. As if all the pain that had chipped away at him for so many years was just making him a better fit for this man, for Derek.

He smiled. “I love you, too.”

Fingers trailed against his cheekbone, as if he were fragile, as if he were _precious_. They kissed again, slow and lingering, as if the honey-sweetness of it melted their bones into amber. Stiles’ trailed his hands back up into Derek’s hair, slanting their mouths further until it was molten-hot.

“Enough of the sappy,” Stiles breathed. “Let’s get to the fucking.”

“So romantic,” Derek chastised, but he was reaching over anyway, fumbling to find the lube on the bedside table. He slickened his fingers, teeth scraping down Stiles’ sternum and ever lower, until those fingers slipped south.

“Shit!” His body arched into it as one finger pressed inwards, a welcome invasion that set his nerves alight. “Shit, Derek, keep going.”

But, the wolf only grinned, taking his time. It was a filthy-hot pressure, slowly working upwards and stretching him even further. When a second finger slipped inside, Stiles was already losing his mind. They worked slowly, scissoring him open, rolling against his insides in a way that was utterly maddening. Derek pressed hot kisses against his stomach, the line of his hips. Then, those fingers crooked and white-hot lightning burned through him, his thighs trembling in the aftershocks.

“Oh my God,” Stiles whimpered, pushing his hips further, his legs wider. “Christ, Derek, fucking fuck me already.”

Of course, Derek didn’t, just added another finger that had Stiles howling. He shone with sweat, his body undulating as three fingers stretched and slid inside him.

“You _love_ this,” Derek murmured, his breath hot against the head of Stiles’ dick. “I could finger you open all day and you’d never get enough. Fuck, you’re gorgeous.”

“You utter asshole,” Stiles managed, his breath hitching. “I hate you.”

Derek sucked on the head for one blinding hot moment before pulling off. “No, you don’t. You said so yourself. No takebacks.”

Stiles whimpered, throwing his head back, pushing his hips further onto the fingers that were slowly killing me. “Never,” he promised. “I’ll never take it back, Derek, never ever, just _please_.”

A moment later, those fingers retreated, leaving Stiles wet and open and desperate. Derek reared back, hooking Stiles’ legs over his hips, and that’s when Stiles felt blunt pressure against his hole. He felt that push, that stretch open as Derek slowly filled him, and his head fell back, his mouth gasping. It burned through him, the piercing ache that hurt so good he was already goddamn obsessed with it, needed it like air in his lungs. One final push, and Stiles felt those hips flush against his skin.

Derek was inside him.

“Holy fuck,” he whimpered. He rolled his hips, crying out as electricity shot through his veins. “Holy fuck, let’s do this forever.”

“God, Stiles.” He opened his eyes to see Derek’s wrecked expression, mouth parted and eyes glazed dark with want. “I never thought - I can’t - so _fucking_ good.”

It started slow, like the first stirrings of high tide, as Derek began moving inside him. Gentle pushes, his hands trembling where they gripped Stiles’ hips. Every time Derek pulled out, Stiles wanted to weep, wanted to beg him to stay inside, only to push forward again, stealing his breath, igniting his blood.

“That’s all you got, Sourwolf?” Stiles finally asked, staring up at Derek through his lashes.

Derek looked up from where he was staring between them, where he had been watching his cock slide into Stiles over and over again.

“Come on,” Stiles urged, raising his hips at just the right moment so Derek’s thrust went deeper, hit sharper. They both groaned. “Come on and fuck me already.”

“You never know when enough is enough,” Derek muttered, though his hips were already quickening their pace.

“If enough means not actually fucking, then absolutely not,” Stiles sniped. His fingernails bit into Derek’s shoulders. “Come on, Alpha. Fuck. Me.”

Those eyes flashed crimson the moment Derek slammed inside him.

Stiles screamed.

Their pace was frantic, like the moon was already brimming full, like they were both wolves in heat. Stiles’ nails scoured Derek’s back as Derek pumped faster, thrust deeper, his hands gripping Stiles hips so hard that Stiles could already feel bruises forming beneath his skin. He was full and stretched open, slick and aching, and every other thrust had him seeing stars as Derek pounded at his prostate. Fangs raked the line of his throat and Stiles sank his teeth into Derek’s shoulder.

“Fucking look at you,” Derek growled, the vibrations nearly too much against Stiles’ skin. “You were made for this. Made for me.”

Stiles bit at Derek’s mouth, mewling. “Fuck yes, I am,” he moaned. “Made for this; made for you - just don’t stop.”

Heat was coiling in his gut, bursting with sparks, and yet he couldn’t get enough, wanted it faster and harder and deeper until he could barely breathe. “I’m so close,” he whined. “I’m so close so close please please please - Fuck!”

Derek had tilted his hips a little further, made his thrusts and littler sharper, hitting that spot within him with pinpoint accuracy, with devastating pressure.

“I’m gonna come.” Stiles hands slid down, circled his cock. “I’m gonna come I’m gonna come-”

Derek growled at him, eyes seared red, his hips brutal with every word. “Then. Fucking. Come.”

Stiles neck was tight, eyes open and unseeing, as orgasm burned through him. It twisted through his veins in white-hot bursts that left him sobbing, his throat sore and body shaking with the aftershock. His hand was drenched with come, his stomach slippery with it. Blinking slowly, he watched as Derek narrowed his eyes, mouth suddenly slack.

“Goddamit Stiles,” he snarled, his pace frenetic, stuttering. “Fucking FUCK.”

Every thrust was so good it hurt, sending out ripples of heat. Reaching up, Stiles let his come-sticky fingers rest on Derek’s bottom lip, and Derek sucked them in greedily, moaning as his eyes fluttered close. Fangs slid against his fingers, Derek’s tongue working between them to drink down every drop. It was one of the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Derek,” he whispered.

His eyes opened, seafoam green again. Stiles pulled him close, refusing to look away.

“Come for me.”

Breath shattered against his mouth, Derek’s body shuddering with orgasm, and Stiles had been wrong, because _this_ was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Derek’s eyes were half-closed but he didn’t look away, lips wet and shoulders shaking from the force of it. Stiles could feel it inside him, filling him up, and it was filthy and glorious and everything he’d ever wanted.

With a ragged groan, Derek pulled away and slumped to Stiles side, face buried in the pillows.

Stiles’ smirk had sleepy edges. “That good, huh?”

A muffled snort answered him, though Stiles quickly found himself dragged against Derek’s side, the wolf’s nose pressed against his collarbone.

“I think I broke something,” Derek muttered.

“How about all the world records for best sex ever?”

“I’ll never walk again.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m the one that can’t walk, asshole. My leg bones have been fucked away. You’ll need to carry me around like a spider monkey on your back.”

Derek’s head tilted so he could pierce Stiles with a sharp look. “Is that a Twilight reference?”

“I’m so proud of you. You’re like a real boy with pop culture knowledge and everything.”

Derek huffed at him, curling even further into Stiles like a large jungle cat. Stile shifted so he was on his back, his hand tracing circles between Derek’s shoulder blades. They breathed together, and Stiles could imagine their heartbeats lining up, beating together in unison. It was the sort of romantic cliche that he secretly cherished and would never tell Derek about. Well, maybe never. Probably someday.

His phone buzzed on his desk, and his hand knocked over a stack of papers trying to grab it. Reading the screen, he cracked a smile.

“Scott wants to practice lacrosse tomorrow,” he said, shoving his phone back. “I guess that means he’s sorry.”

“I’m glad you two are okay,” Derek admitted. “Even if Scott is a terrifyingly manipulative person when he wants to be.”

Stiles poked his ribs. “That’s my best friend, you know.”

“I know.”

“Even if what you say is surprisingly and horrifyingly true.”

“Like I said.”

Stiles brushed his nose against Derek’s temple, scenting him. “He’ll get better. I promise.”

Fingers traced his ribs. “I don’t quite believe it,” Derek murmured, “but I believe in you.”

“Yeah?”

A soft kiss was pressed against the dip of his throat. “Yeah.”

As Derek sank in sleep next to him, tempting him into his own dreams, Stiles felt the spark burn bright in his chest with realization.

For the first time since his mother died, since he’d cut himself open, since he’d started running with wolves, Stiles believed in himself too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHITSNACKS! IT'S FINISHED! ::does a happy dance:: I want to thank everyone who has stuck with me during this process because ya'll are seriously the best. I have something already in the works for my next (which I REFUSE to start publishing until it's actually 100% done). Once again, you guys are the literal best!!!
> 
> I wanted to add this, now that this baby has been finished for a few months, because I am so completely and utterly overwhelmed by all the comments and messages I'm receiving. I cannot even describe how amazing you all are and how awestruck I am that you all love this story as much as I do. This is my favorite fandom and you guys are the reason why!


End file.
